A Tale of Angloa
by Isabelle Sumner
Summary: He was empty and driven by rage, she was frightened and trapped in her cage. Perhaps with her love or affection at least, a Beauty might save a cold-hearted Beast. But who could ever love a Beast? BntB retelling. Set in 16th century Europe. Trilogy Part 1
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: This story is a retelling of the classic fairytale _Beauty and the Beast_ , with a rather large twist. You will find most basic elements, but I felt I wanted to retell it for it is one of my favorite stories. The tale is full of action, intrigue, romance, and European history for those of you who are interested in that.

Full Summary: As the foundations for modern Europe are laid, we find ourselves in Angloa - a country bordering the outskirts of the continent - where Tristan Hawthorn dwells, a mysterious man hiding behind a mask. He soon encounters Christine Vega and falls in love with her. As the pair finds themselves in the middle of a plot that might end their lives, Tristan does all he can to gain the love of Christine. If he does so, he can save his own cold heart and perhaps his true self. Will Christine look beyond Tristan's hideous outward appearance and sincerely love him?

* * *

 **A TALE OF ANGLOA**

 _Chapter 1_

In 1519, the year of our lord, Europe dragged itself out of the darkness that was the Middle Ages and into a new, enlightened era, filled with wondrous works of art. The steady influx of ancient Greek and Latin texts during the Middle Ages, and through the deceased empire, Al-Andalus as well as the Italian peninsula, had allowed the Europeans to once again rediscover Plato and Aristoteles and to take after these old philosophers. 1519, being the year of death of one of the most powerful emperors, Maximillian I of the Holy Roman empire, created tension throughout the continent. There was uncertainty regarding which king would receive the crown, be it Charles V of Spain or François I of France. Wars raged on the Italian peninsula for territory between the two superpowers, and the desire for bringing home riches from the New World only grew stronger.

Amidst all the tumult, an island lay to the west of southern France, forgotten and shielded from the political struggles the mainland offered. Angloa: once an English colony that, during the Hundred Years' War, claimed its independence. Still a youthful nation, the country found it difficult to gain alliances. Angloa was the gateway to the Americas for many countries. Many merchant ships, before setting off for or returning from the New World, would pass through the country's gates. The power of the country had declined during the years and faced eventual invasion from Henry Tudor of England. King Magnus, who took the crown after his brother's death, had died years earlier. Thus leaving the throne to his son, James Fell.

* * *

 _Wessport - October 29th_

The chants of Franciscan monks could be heard early in the morning mist. A lone rider made his way through the gates of the capital and past the walls that framed the sleepy city. Wessport slowly awoke to the dim sun rays that shone through the thick clouds. It was late October and the cold rains had begun, followed by shorter days and friskier nights. The main road to the royal palace was muddy, reeking of the waste people threw out of their homes and directly onto the street. The rider wrinkled his nose in disgust and urged his horse to go faster, gliding between the many stalls and carriages lining the narrow streets. Several individuals were up and the rider perceived chimneys puffing out pure white smoke. Above the patisserie, clouds escaped the baker's oven, where, soon, delicate pastries and slices of bread would be available to the masses of Wessport.

The horse bore its rider to the gates of the palace, an impressive fortress constructed by the English at the turn of the millennium and rebuilt by the Angloans after their independence. The sleepy guards let him in, as he proudly displayed the emblem of the royal messenger. His tired horse carried him to the grand stone courtyard, where it almost collapsed, having ridden all night. The brown mare held her head low, breathing in the icy air while being led to the stables to rest. The rider, just as tired as his horse, from lack of food and sleep, pushed on, in his dirty cape and worn clothes. Rain during the night had long since soaked through the fabric. He sensed a cold creeping up on him and ran toward the assembly chamber, where the king was waiting for him. In his satchel, he carried a hastily written letter from the general of the Angloan armies. The letter bore the seal of the general and it was still unbroken. The messenger walked in through the mahogany doors and into the assembly where King James Fell and three advisors sat. Although in night clothes, the group nevertheless appeared regal, as delicate robes and fine jewelry cascaded over simple white chemises and wool pants. The messenger did not say a word but let his appearance speak for itself. He made a swift bow and handed the letter to his king. The advisors noted that the white parchment held blood stains in some areas. The king broke the seal and swiftly opened the letter while the tired messenger excused himself, as the contents of the letter were not for his ears. Soon the messenger knew he would take a warm bath and kiss the soft pillows and sheets of his bed. His aching body finally could lie down and rest after two days of riding from the north coast.

King James read the letter twice before letting his grin show his state of mind.

"What news from the north, Your Majesty?" inquired the aging man to his left. Lord Thomas Athar let his worry seep through his gray eyes. The crow's feet around them deepened as he fixed his gaze on the monarch. Athar scratched his white goatee and mustache thoughtfully. The old man was an advisor to the current king and an old friend of the Fell family.

"General Hawthorne writes of his success on the battlefield. The English have left our shores and are headed for their lands again." A sudden release of breath came from the other two men at the table. Lord Alistair and Lord Braun showed signs of relief, letting their tense shoulders fall and their rigid posture falter.

"A treaty must be formed with England soon. If they accept defeat, we might finally rest and recover from this blasted war," Lord Alistair spoke haughtily. The younger man showed fiery determination to prove himself amongst men who had been at their profession longer than he.

"Easy, Alistair," said the king calmly, relieved at the end of a three-year conflict. "We have yet to know if it has ended. The English have only withdrawn from battle, but that does not mean they have given up the war."

"Does the letter say anything else?" questioned Lord Braun with a hint of curiosity. The lord was a middle-aged man, with thinning brown hair and a full beard among streaks of silver.

"Yes. The English have promised to send an envoy to talk with me. He wrote it would be best if I went to the north and spoke with him myself."

"Is that wise?" Lord Braun asked timidly yet gained a burst of confidence, as no one spoke against him. "With all due respect, General Hawthorne has won many battles for you, Your Majesty. When he appeared out of nowhere two years ago and turned this war around, we were very grateful toward him. However, you are blindly trusting him to travel yourself out of the safe walls of Wessport, and to the unprotected harshness of the north, which is too much." Alistair bluntly agreed with Braun and the king sighed inwardly.

"You are quick to judge the man that, more than likely, saved the liberty of this kingdom, Lord Braun. I understand where you come from, but I have noticed that several of you possess a rising, and very misguided, distaste for General Hawthorne. Is it because he was a commoner when he arrived at court, with his ideas and new strategies to win the war? Or might it be his peculiar appearance that unsettles you so? I appointed Hawthorne a general and trusted him, as I saw potential in the man, just as I see potential in you, Braun, and in you, Alistair." The king paused. Lord Braun had long since diverted his glance and wished he could take back what he said. "General Hawthorne may be a strange and unconventional man, but he is honorable. If he wants me to come to the coast, I will do so. It might be a way to end this war."

Lord Athar released a small smile at his king's decisiveness, for he had seen the boy grow up. The pressures the young lad had been under, to live up to the names of past kings, were particularly heavy burdens. Lord Athar recalled the late monarch, King Philip Fell I, James' uncle. He was the first great king of Angloa. He lived to be seventy-seven years old and got a reign of over fifty years. He died suddenly of complications one night, twenty-seven years ago. His only heirs were his two daughters; Carina and Miriam, and so the king's much younger brother, Magnus Fell, took the crown, only to end up perishing in a hunting accident seven years later. King James came to rule after that, at the young age of ten. He was immature and inexperienced and that was why he surrounded himself with his advisors. But whatever he lacked in a ruling, he made up for in being a particularly good judge of character. The king hit the bull's eye with Tristan Hawthorne, the current commanding general of the armies of the north. Athar had to confess that, even though he found the man strange, and sometimes, perhaps even close to monstrous, he could not argue with the success the general provided for the past two years.

"Lord Athar," the king said, bringing the old man out of his train of thought.

"Yes, Your Majesty," the older man responded, locking his gray eyes with the king's green ones.

"Have them prepare my stallion and a sizeable escort. Let us arrive at the shores of Castell with pomp and show the envoy how we receive people here in Angloa," the king stated as he rose from his seat. He walked out of the room and to his apartments, to get ready for the harsh journey.

Lord Athar sent one of his personal servants to have them prepare the king's horse and a royal escort, as he would go too.

 _Castell - October 27th_

It was mid-morning when Lucius, commander of the third platoon, woke to cheerful singing. It had been so long since he heard such sounds at the camp at Castell, on the northern peninsula of Angloa. He only witnessed the gloomy and worried faces of his men as they rode countless times into battle with General Hawthorne. But now, even though the clouds were hanging low in the gray and cold sky, not letting the sun seep through, he saw merry faces and heard jolly voices singing in unison. Men, wounded and tired, toasted to last night's victory.

Stephen, one of Lucius' soldiers, came running to his tent and told the commanding officer to make haste. He was summoned to a meeting, of which had just begun. Lucius hurried across camp to General Hawthorne's great, dark blue tent that stood mighty among a sea of white ones. The man delved deeper into the canopy until he found a round table with strategically placed figurines that displayed several battle plans. Twenty men stood around it while General Hawthorne buried himself in the fabrics of the farthest part of the tent

"We believed you would sleep the whole day, Lucius," came the dark voice of the general who, as always, preferred standing in the shadows rather than among his officers. Lucius said nothing and squeezed in between two men, standing next to the table, well aware that the general was only teasing him.

"As I was saying, the king is on his way. He is most likely to arrive in five days. We can only hope that the envoy the English promised us will have arrived by then. Joseph," the powerful voice of the man in the shadows spoke, "have some of your men on the lookout by the shores, but make sure they are covered if the English were to attack again. Jonathan, I want you and a dozen of your men to wait on the shores north of the Castell fortress. Receive the envoy and if the king does not arrive in two days, you may return. We wait only for word from Joseph's men." The men around the table nodded.

"Are you still expecting an attack from the English, sir?" Lucius asked his general.

There was a slight pause before the man in the shadows solemnly replied, "Trust no one in war, Lucius. We may have won many battles, but we cannot know for sure if they will send an envoy. They might even use our good intentions against us." The men around the table voiced their agreement and were soon dismissed. Only Lucius was asked to stay.

Once the men retired, General Hawthorne stepped out from the shadows. Lucius could not help his gaze as it drifted away from the tall, imposing figure of the man before him. All were aware of how intimidating the general looked. Lucius guessed that was why he kept to the shadows: to not allow any curious eyes to sneak an extra glance at him. Even so, his intimidating presence was of great help on the battlefield. He always was mounted on his gray stallion, at the front of the lines, riding into the thick of the battle. It continually intimidated the English and others. He had been dubbed "The Lion of the North" for the way he carried himself in battle. His style of combat was unlike anything anyone had ever seen. It was swift and graceful for a man of such a stature. No one knew if he was as bulky as he appeared under all that armor, as no one had ever seen him with it off.

However, the most striking aspect of the general was what he did not show: his face, or any skin, save a little around his exposed eyes and lips. His whole head and his hands were covered in black leather. Supposedly, the man was either deformed, scarred, or rather, bore the face of the devil himself. The general could have been a monster for all they cared, as that was what he invoked whenever he came face to face with anyone. No one dared to speculate the truth behind that black, leather mask, and even though Lucius knew the general, he still felt uneasy whenever he spoke to him. The fact that the man showed signs of unsavory mood swings did not help.

"I ask of you a favor, Lucius," General Hawthorne spoke. He sat down in a chair, exhausted, and his covered hand grazed the round table. The general was exceptionally tired but only revealed his fatigue when with Lucius, which might as well be showing signs of weakness: something the general could not afford. He desired to hold an impression of almost an unearthly man, someone who never grew tired or worried. Both men maintained an unspoken friendship, never expressed in anything more than glances or kind gestures. For the time being, both preferred it that way.

"We have a spy in our midst. The only reason the battle raged on for so long last night, was because our positions were revealed beforehand. Had I not told the second and fifth platoon to hide to the east of the fortress, we might even have lost. I can only trust you, Lucius, for the time being. I want you to find this spy discreetly and when we are sure it is him, bring him to me," Hawthorne said. Lucius only nodded and turned to leave, feeling the stern gaze of the general on his back.

"Lucius," the slightly more tired voice said from behind him; the young man turned around to meet the hooded eyes of Tristan Hawthorne, "take a few hours to clean yourself up; you look horrible."

Lucius smiled, "I might say the same for you, general." He left soon after.

General Hawthorne moved to the back of the tent - his personal quarters - where he dropped on the bed. He had not slept a wink ever since the battle. He had written a letter to the king and sent it with one of the fastest messengers as soon as the battle was won. His leather gloves had left blood on the white parchment. It would show the king and his advisors the reality of the situation.

He took off the black gloves and let his bare hands breathe in the chilly October air. He stripped the mask from his face, letting it breathe. The general made sure not to fall asleep with his face bare, for if anyone witnessed his features, the shock alone would do them no good. Hawthorne could not afford to have anyone see what he truly looked like. The black mask was imposing enough but constricting if worn for a long time. He had not taken it off for three days and needed a change and a wash.

The general let cold water run through his greasy locks as he scrubbed his face clean. He needed a shave but since there were no mirrors available in the tent, he settled for a trim of the wild beard that would not stop growing. He cursed his face - he cursed himself - for having to wear that goddamned mask. The general put his gloves on tediously and deemed that when all this was over, he would leave Angloa with Sofia, who was waiting for him in Wessport. The two would travel east once more. Hawthorne made himself comfortable on his bed and drifted off into a dreamless and well-deserved sleep that lasted for many hours.

 _Castell - November 1st_

The white tents billowed in the strong wind that descended from the west earlier that day. Next to the general's tent, stood the king's massive, burgundy one. King James Fell, together with the envoy - an ambassador from King Henry's court - were setting up an agreement to end the war. General Hawthorne and his most trusted men stood on the side. The soldiers of the camp cheered when the king declared the war was over. England would leave Angloa be and a treaty for trade between the two countries had been set. The war was over and Angloa would slowly heal from the wounds that had been sustained in battle. The king set off to the capital with the majority of the soldiers. General Hawthorne stayed and prepared for the journey back, as the king asked of him.

"I have a surprise for you when you come back, General Hawthorne. You are to be greatly rewarded for your successful campaign against the enemy," King James said to the taller man. Even if King James was uneasy by the appearance of General Hawthorne, he did not show it. He only displayed the gratitude he felt toward the man who helped save the nation. However, Tristan Hawthorne held no plans on staying in Wessport. He would only go back to find Sofia and then they would board the first ship sailing east, where he could finally discard of the mask and settle down again, as he had many years before. His sense of duty to his country was satisfied, as he had helped it out of its peril; it no longer needed him.

 _Wessport - November 3rd_

Great cheers erupted throughout the city as the general and the last of the Angloan army rode through the gates of the city and into Wessport itself. The folks of the city lined the streets, cheered, and threw rice in the air in celebration. They were grateful towards the mysterious man who had saved them. General Hawthorne wore a cape with a deep hood so that none could see the black mask. But on this day, no one cared about that; no one speculated why he was not showing his face. Even though rumors about him had been whispered for the past two years, they only knew gratitude. As Hawthorne and Lucius rode into the courtyard, servants came to take their horses and informed them that the king had a special celebration planned tonight in their honor. Joseph, a young nobleman who led the fourth platoon, was with the group. He was close to the general, though not as close as Lucius, but appreciated Hawthorne and even looked up to him as a role model.

Tristan washed and changed into more comfortable clothes and put the cape back on. He had no plans on staying in the palace, and much less to join in on the celebrations. He longed to find Sofia and head off from Wessport, as it held nothing for him. However, the general never slipped out of the city. The guards, although frightened of him, did not let Hawthorne pass. Even if he had fought his way out, there was still the outer city walls and the gate, which was defended by over fifty men. Ten guards escorted him as he left the king's residence. They made sure of his return for the night's celebrations. General Hawthorne walked the streets with his hood until he reached the outskirts of town. Sofia had found a small place to rent with the money he had been sending her for the past two years. He told the guards to wait for him while he stepped in. He wanted to surprise the woman and, therefore, did not tap on the door. She was in the small kitchen, cooking away at the stove. Her gray hair was in a long braid and her clothes were ripped and dull.

"I thought you had forgotten me," her stern, motherly voice spoke.

Tristan smiled behind the mask and remembered that it was impossible to hide from Sofia. "How could I? I was led directly to the palace."

She turned around. The woman's aquiline nose wrinkled, something it always did when she was displeased, and her raven eyes cut into his. "Have you prepared then, for our departure? I cannot tolerate another minute in this city," she complained in a soft Spanish accent. Sofia was a Spanish gypsy, born and raised in the streets of Seville. Since her youth, she had traveled most of Europe, and later, the Orient with Tristan. She was like a mother to him and had raised him as if he were her own.

"I cannot leave. I, apparently, have guards following me and they will not let me depart the city until I have attended the festivities the king has prepared for tonight," Tristan said angrily, his hot temper escaping.

"Go, then!" she nearly yelled, flinging her arms in no specific direction. "And take care of that mood of yours. I dislike it when you use that tone towards me; you have your soldiers for that," she fiercely stated, obviously not practicing what she preached.

"You can still leave. We can meet up in Cadiz and, together, sail from there," Tristan said hopeful.

Sofia shook her head. "No. If the king has put guards on you, I have a feeling you will be in Wessport for some time." She put down the wooden spoon and took Tristan by the hand, leading him to the small wooden table in the middle of the kitchen. Her eyes wandered to his mask. "I know we came back here because you felt you had an obligation to protect your homeland from the invader with the knowledge you gained in the east. If that is how you feel, you can never leave from here. There will always be problems lurking on the horizon, waiting to threaten this country, especially in these times. That is how it works, Tristan. That is how it has always worked," she said solemnly as she patted his gloved hands, staring straight into his eyes. Sofia was not afraid of what the mask hid, for she had seen his face before. It was she who had told him to put on a mask and hide his face. Urging him to do so saved Tristan many troubles. At first, Tristan had not understood why, but as he grew older, he came to know the reason. His face was a unique one and, for the sake of all, it was best left unseen. Until he could reach the seclusion that was offered in the east - in one of the old monasteries up in the mountains where he passed from his adolescence into his adult years - his face would stay this way.

"We don't know, Sofia. I will go as the king has commanded and, tomorrow, we set sail to return to the Ming Kingdom."

Nothing more was discussed on the matter and soon Tristan left for the palace again. The day passed rapidly and night shortly fell.

The ballroom, once a grand hall, was filled to the brim with renovations. It had been remodeled with white marble, of which reflected the Renaissance influence. Painted ceilings and Roman busts of kings lined the walls. At the end of the vast room, draped a grand portrait of King Philip I, known by most as King Philip the Brave. He was King James' uncle. Lord Athar, who had known the old king in his prime years, said the painting was a true resemblance of the man. It showed his gray, steel eyes, midnight hair, and impeccably handsome features. The man in the painting possessed an arrogant smirk while standing on the battlefield; and, in his hand, was the loyal flag of Angloa, embodying the patriotic essence of the country. Often enough, James would stare at that grand portrait and wonder if his uncle was peering down from heaven, guiding him in his own rule of the country. No portrait of Magnus, James' father could be found in that grand room.

The grand ballroom, referred to as "The Blue Room" because of the blue drapes that decorated the pillars and walls, quickly filled up. Tables lined the edges of the room, leaving the middle exposed for jesters and dancing. The king's cousin, daughter of the late King Philip, Carina Fell, twenty years his senior, arrived with her timid, childish sister. Although in her autumn years, she was still a beauty. Carina carried prominent Angloan traits such as ebony hair, striking green eyes, a delicate, feminine face with full red lips, and a petite nose and defined jaw. She conducted herself with grace while making way to the main table. The aging woman took her place next to Queen Tabitha, the king's timid and frankly unnoticeable wife. A great nobleman who, before his death, married off his only daughter to Prince James. The woman could not bear any children and her sterility caused a rift between the couple.

"Lady Carina," the king nodded as his older cousin took her place next to his wife. She bowed as she sat.

"I see that Lady Amelia and Lady Christine are here," the woman sneered. The reason being that Lady Amelia and Lady Christine were wife and daughter to the deceased count: Charles Vega, a half-Angloan and half-Spaniard. A year earlier he had been charged of treason and hanged. All his property had been claimed by the crown. His family was left in disgrace. The king took pity on them and gave the mother and daughter a portion of the land so they could live comfortably. But it was clear they held no place at court, so Lady Carina found it surprising they showed up to such an event.

"I called on them. Tonight is a night for celebrating. All are to join in on the festivities," the king said sternly to his cousin, a woman he found too nosy at times.

"Do not forget that Charles Vega sold us out to the English, dear nephew," Lady Carina said. A frown brushed across her delicate features.

"Should I have killed them as well? That would only inspire fear from any of my nobles and people. We do not need fear in times such as these. They are here tonight because I have an announcement that concerns the Vega family."

Miriam, another of the king's cousins, donned a smirk as her sister only scoffed. Personally, Miriam could not tolerate Carina, her gossip, or the way she judged those around her.

As the night descended, laughter and great discussions began. Nobles and highly decorated officers celebrated the end of the three-year war. Many wondered where the man of the hour was; General Hawthorne was nowhere to be seen. But as soon as they talked about him, the grand doors of the room opened and General Hawthorne was announced.

A general quiet fell on the room as a tall figure, backed by two other men, Joseph and Lucius, stood in the immense round-arched doorway. The imposing figure marched into the hall and the music died down, as, for the first time, the nobles would see the savior of the country. The fact was that no one had ever truly seen the general. When he first appeared two years ago, only the king and his advisors talked with him. He never appeared at social events and was always away on war campaigns and battles in the north. Yet they saw him now, towering and dignified, dressed in black hoses, dark brown boots, a dark blue doublet, and a navy blue cape with rich black and gold trimmings fastened diagonally across his back. Even so, all eyes were drawn to the black mask that hid his features and shadowed his eyes. Numerous ladies gasped so severely that they nearly fainted. Others choked on their drinks, with eyes bulging out of their sockets. A sword clung to his left hip. Many were worried that the man might use it against them. Amidst all the fear, several women experienced opposite reactions. They a wild mysterious man they wanted to test in their boudoir; someone to tame. The majority of the women hid their emotions and played along with the general horror that settled in over the room. His large, bulky frame ignited a spark of curiosity in them.

"General!" the king exclaimed as Tristan Hawthorne arrived at the grand table. Lady Carina eyed him with keen curiosity.

"Your Majesty, I thank you for your invitation. My greatly trusted officers and I are at your service," the dark booming voice sounded through the halls. The silence following was so tense that no one could even cut it with a butter knife. But the king, dressed in all his finery and rich clothing, ignored the public and focused only on his trusted general.

"Why the solemn attitude, my dear general? One might think I have called you to attend your own execution," the king spoke merrily, making a gesture for the masked man to step forward.

"Then perhaps you might explain why the ten armed guards were following me around the whole day," said Tristan sternly, not partaking in the king's merry tone.

"I knew you would leave Angloa as soon as the war was over. Don't you remember it was the first thing you told me when we initially met two years ago? And how is it you would leave before we had the chance to properly thank you?" The king rose from his seat and looked around the room. "I have brought the general here to acknowledge his brilliant valor on the field and his keen mind for war and strategical planning. I hope he will stay with us longer. That is why I have offered him a place amongst us and to also give him a high title: that of a count, to be exact." Gasps rose from the crowd. Several people were outraged due to that beast of a man being offered a title much higher than theirs. Others were intrigued to have such a man amongst them.

"I cannot accept such a generous offer, Your Majesty," the general flatly said. The king ignored him and continued with his monologue.

"I offer you the lands of Cadherra." Many glances were directed to Lady Amelia and her daughter Christine, for they had been wife and daughter to the late Count of Cadherra. General Hawthorne was not aware of this but kept insisting he not take such a charitable offer. Other's gritted their teeth. Cadherra was a rich and prosperous land that they had sought for themselves, all in vain now.

"Furthermore, as the late Count of Cadherra's wife and daughter still own a small plot of that land, I expect you to wed his daughter, Christine. It was not their fault that the late count turned out to be a traitor." The king continued urging for daughter and mother to stand. Christine Vega did all she could to hold back tears of sorrow and fright as the humiliating situation unfolded before her. She could not bear to look at the intimidating man the king offered to her. James proposed a situation that would bring Lady Amelia and Lady Christine back into his good graces again. If Christine Vega wedded Tristan Hawthorne, their marriage would link the man to the country and he would protect it from future struggles. King James thought it a brilliant idea, at the cost of Christine's life and happiness. But she accepted it so her mother could live out a comfortable life.

Tristan Hawthorne looked toward the two women. He felt something in his chest when his eyes caught the beautiful figure of Christine. Tristan's gaze trailed over her soft, golden locks wrapped up in a romantic hairdo. Her dress was the color of a blue summer sky and her eyes were pristine and clear. Unshed tears threatened to fall from her orbs but were held back through sheer willpower. Hawthorne knew a woman's touch, having been with many beauties in his life, but never had he witnessed such defiance and resilience in character as the stunning woman before him. Her entire being intrigued him. When the general's silence spoke for itself, the king grinned. His plan worked to perfection. The young beauty would marry General Hawthorne. As was expected, the general would settle and have a family in Angloa; therefore, he would not leave. With General Hawthorne amongst them, the future of Angloa was secure. No one would attack the country while the Lion of the North still lived in it.

"We need not speak further on this matter, general. We shall soon witness a glorious wedding!" the king exclaimed, clapping. At first, most did not clap, and only stared at General Hawthorne and then at Christine. Yet, slowly, evil smirks descended upon the faces of the masses and many whispered, "Thank God it is not me," while they clapped and cheered.

Hawthorne said nothing and only reflected on Sofia's words earlier that day: " _I have a feeling you will be in Wessport for some time_."

* * *

 **Update:** this fanfic is currently being re-edited. This chapter has already been updated and I would like to give my deepest thanks to my Beta: **Shiloh Grace**. She has helped me immensely going over this chapter.

Author's Note: I hope you all enjoyed this first chapter! It is a very unconventional retelling of _Beauty and the Beast_ , with other elements intertwined. I feel we always see the same fairy tale. I wanted a big twist in this one. I hope you liked it and let me know if you did. The second chapter will come up sometime later this month, as I am taking the final exams at Uni (unfortunately, that's how it works here in Europe). So, please, R n' R! Cheers!


	2. Chapter 2

**A TALE OF ANGLOA**

 _Chapter 2_

 _Wessport - November 4th_

She looked at the fluffy snowflakes as they slowly drifted from the silver sky to the unstirred, virgin ground, white as the wings of a swan. She felt trapped in the small townhouse their tainted name still possessed. It stood in the middle circle of the city where the merchants and wealthy bourgeoisie lived. Both the house and the city were silent.

Christine Vega, daughter of the late Count of Cadherra, looked to the corner of the dull, gray room. Her wedding dress toppled over at the far end. In a fortnight, Lady Amelia and Lady Christine would reside in their former home once more. The mansion stood raised on a cliff in a valley in Cadherra, by Raven's Grove, the very woods she roamed as a little girl. But at what price? Whenever Christine's mind slipped back to the night she first gazed upon her future husband, the young woman only reminisced the horror that stirred in her gut as a giant, dressed in dark clothing, walked in, with no face and no human resemblance save his eyes and lips. He seemed shadowed by the horrible leather helm that covered his head like a second skin.

King James proposed to Christine a deal that would restore her family name to its former glory. If she willingly married General Tristan Hawthorne so that he might take over the lands, she would become Countess of Cadherra and her mother would live out her last years in comfort. But now Christine felt she made a deal with the Devil. The king offered his plan to her because she was in a desperate enough situation to accept it. No other lady would ever consent to such a marriage.

Ever since the celebration the day before, she kept to the small townhouse and rarely ventured outside. She had not spoken since her mother had urged her out of the palace. In a few days, she and her mother would take a ship to Adelton Hall, their old home. She had not stepped foot in the old mansion for almost a year, since her father's demise. It was a long journey south. She was happy that she did not have to go through the mountains and the vast, dark forest known as Raven's Grove. The only solace she found by traveling back to her childhood home was that she would be far away from the judging eyes and lashing tongues of the court. She was also thankful that she would make the trip without her betrothed, for the more time she spent away from him, the happier she was. However, one part of her argued that she should be grateful that her small family had been saved. Who knew what would have happened once their funds ended. They knew no trade and had never achieved a hard day's work in their life.

The green wedding gown her mother had married in was fitted for her and taken in by the best seamstresses Wessport had to offer weeks earlier. It was beautiful, with sheer sleeves that ended with a framing of delicate lace. The bodice tapered down to a point at the lower portion of her waist, and a low square shaped neckline, trimmed with delicate lace, offered it a more modest look. The skirt was long and flowed with a small, layered train. The last layers were smoother and when Christine walked it looked as though she had clouds swirling about her. It was a deep emerald green, greener than the rolling meadows outside of her home in summer, greener than the trees of Raven's Grove. But to her, it still looked dark and unpleasant. Her mother had tried to keep up a charade of bravery, yet the moment she gazed upon her daughter, tears threatened to fall. Alas, Lady Vega did not urge her daughter to call off the wedding. She felt guilty in not doing so, for the realization of her own cowardice tore at her internally. There had been a rift created between mother and daughter wherein one felt extremely guilty and the other a crushing sense of duty.

What Christine feared the most was not having to be in close quarters with the man but their wedding night. Other ladies at the feast, whenever they had the chance to voice their opinions to her, had argued that she should be thankful. She had seen twenty-one summers and was already past the common age for marrying. She had no prospects, no lands, no dowry to offer, and her name was tarnished by her traitor-of-a-father. Therefore, most regarded the marriage between Tristan Hawthorne and Christine Vega as a salvation for the poor girl.

"Miss, here is your food," came the soft, motherly voice of her chambermaid, Maria. Despite the difficulties the family had faced, Maria had been one of the few servants to stay with them. Even though it was in the wee hours of the morning, the woman, a few years older than Christine, did not wait for her lady's affirmation. She simply walked in and sat the bowl of thick broth down on the desk by the window, where Christine sat. The blonde did not make any move to touch the food.

As the steam of the rich broth wafted through the air, Maria sighed. "Miss, please, my heart would soar to see you get some sustenance," Maria said in a slight southern accent, running like sweet honey from her lips, a sound that usually comforted Christine. The young woman looked away from the window a moment and locked her lavender eyes with Maria's golden ones. When she saw the concern on her maid's face, she did what was asked of her, proceeding to drink the warm liquid. She did it all without saying a word. When she was done, she rested her head in her arms and looked out the window once more. It was still early morning, yet most servants had awoken now. The once untouched snow was now trampled by horses and muddied shoes as merchants, servants, and other inhabitants of the town made their way to wherever they were going. Maria decided to leave the girl alone with her thoughts. She felt as sorry for her just as the other three servants in the house.

She looked at the wedding dress with despairing eyes before closing the door. As soon as Maria left, Christine started crying. She had been for most of the night.

 _November 4th_

The morning fog had yet to disperse. Chills crept up the spines of those who were beginning to go outside. By the entrance of the palace stood the guards, drinking spirits to keep warm. Winter was upon Angloa and many believed that it would come early this year. The snow that started falling during the night was not yet welcome, but as it couldn't be helped, people dealt with it as they did with many other hardships.

In the palace, the stone walls did little to keep the cold outside. During the night, frostbitten servants ran through the mighty hallways, lighting fires to keep the inhabitants of the palace warm, as well as themselves. When others awoke that morning, they took hold of an extra fur or blanket, staying several more minutes in their soft, comfortable beds before eventually dragging themselves out. The king awoke moments before dawn. He had not found solace through the night with the woman that slept with him, a pretty redhead whose name he had already forgotten. He stood in one of the smaller rooms that adjoined his private quarters. It was a large ensemble of rooms that were only for his use. The walls of said room were draped with red fabrics which kept some of the warmth inside. By one end there was a blazing fire that crackled away in the middle-sized chimney. The king looked with a slightly amused face as his general stood erect in one of the far corners. Hawthorne was tense and had his back to the smaller man, giving King James a view of the cords that laced his black mask shut. The general came to him early that morning and requested a private audience. They had been there for almost ten minutes and Tristan had yet to say a word, so the king spoke first.

"Preparations are being made for your trip this coming week." The other man turned around so fast that the king thought it humanly impossible. In three long strides, they came face to face. James had to raise his eyes slightly to consider the two dark holes where the eyes of Tristan were thought to have been.

"Are you, Your Majesty, arranging this marriage to keep me here in Angloa?" came the general's furious voice. There was a lack of self-containment on his part. The king had never seen the man so angry and almost recoiled at the intensity of the rasping voice. He then remembered that kings did not show such weakness of mind before anyone.

"I am only offering you the gratitude of my people, count." The king felt his lips twitch but kept from smirking as he did not want to agitate Tristan further. He, of course, knew the implications of giving up Cadherra to such a man. Some of his nobles would protest as they had expected Cadherra to be divided amongst themselves. But James needed the security of Tristan Hawthorne in his country. Not only was he an excellent warrior, but the strategy and planning he had used to win many of his battles was foreign and impressive.

"You offer me this gratitude by wedding me to a traitor's daughter?" the count lashed out, forgetting that he was talking to his king. He began losing control of himself and commenced pacing the floor like some agitated predator, as he did not know what else to do with himself. The king continued feeling uneasy.

"The girl does not please you?" he asked with a vague, wistful tone. Tristan stopped pacing and turned his eyes to meet James'. He did not know how to respond. Of course, the girl pleased him. She intrigued him with her beauty and composure in the blue room. But he could not marry her. She had appeared so innocent that he almost feared her. He feared to break something that looked so pure; he feared that he would taint her with himself.

"Yes, and very much so, but-" Tristan trailed off. What was there to say? He could not confess that he feared to marry her because of how he looked. He could not bear having her in his reach, knowing it would be wrong to take her. Indeed, he could not marry her.

"Then what is the problem? She and her mother have agreed to this union and you will only profit from it. This is the world outside of battles and war, my dear count." The king said the title again, almost in a mocking tone. Tristan was not used to it, having received the title only a few hours earlier. "We offer you Cadherra graciously and only hope you will accept it."

Tristan knew that he had already accepted the offer in his heart. He wanted the girl; he needed the girl. He knew all this even upon the realization that he could not stay any longer in Angloa. Two years in the north had already stretched his advantage. If he stayed longer and settled, he would live imprisoned by his mask for the rest of his days. And what would Sofia say? There was no doubt that she would unleash a mighty storm of unparalleled rage against him as soon as she found out about the wedding.

"Come, Tristan. I understand this might trouble you now, but once all parties are willing, everyone will benefit from this marriage. Lady Christine is a traitor's daughter for God's sake. Marrying you will bring honor to her family again, and she will not have to live out the rest of her days as an old maid. Otherwise, such a beauty would be spoiled, don't you think?" Tristan knew better than to let himself be convinced.

"I want to hear it from her. I want her to say that she has agreed to marry me, and if so, then I shall journey to Adelton Hall in Cadherra and take her as my wife." He consoled himself with the decision. If he heard those words from the girl's own lips, he would not hesitate an instant. With that, he left the king's presence and went to Sofia's home. He felt safer there at night, where he knew he could take his mask off and for once relax. He walked the streets of Wessport with his hood up, tracking through the mud and snow. He attempted figuring out how best to give his friend the news. Some passerby who happened to raise their head, meeting his frame, looked away in fright as they saw the blackness that resided within his hood. The stranger averted his gaze and immediately stepped out of his way. Tristan felt himself sigh and continued toward the outer circle of the town. He walked through the narrow alleys and small streets until he arrived at the house.

He walked the streets of Wessport with his hood up, tracking through the mud and snow. He attempted figuring out how best to give his friend the news. Some passerby who happened to raise their head, meeting his frame, looked away in fright as they saw the blackness that resided within his hood. The stranger averted his gaze and immediately stepped out of his way. Tristan felt himself sigh and continued toward the outer circle of the town. He walked through the narrow alleys and small streets until he arrived at the house.

"I did not hear you leave," came Sofia's raspy voice. She must have just awoken as her voice was still stiff from sleep. She stood by the cauldron that hung over the fire, preparing breakfast: a gray mush that Tristan had accustomed himself to after living with her for many years. He locked the door behind him and made sure all windows were closed. The count then walked over to the table where he pulled back his hood and unlaced the cords of his mask. His face breathed the fresh morning air that seeped in from the cracks of the walls.

"I left before dawn," he said nonchalantly before reaching for a piece of the rock-hard loaf that he soaked in some warmed and spiced wine. Sofia continued stirring the porridge in the cauldron in a peaceful, hazy state-of-mind.

"So, I hear the mighty Tristan Hawthorne is getting married." She remained as calm as before and did not even glance over at him.

"It appears that way." Tristan began eating the soaked bread and reached for the pitcher of water that he poured into the wine to dull the strong flavor.

"I wonder how that came about." Sofia tasted the porridge, wrinkled her nose, and poured what appeared to be cinnamon and nutmeg into the mix. Tristan wondered how the cunning, secretive lady managed to get her hands on the otherwise costly spices.

"It just came about." Tristan fixed his eyes on her slightly wrinkled face. Even for a woman of her age, which could be anywhere between forty and sixty, she was very impressive to look at. Her beauty was a mature and exotic one. She had delicate creases around her eyes and forehead that deepened her severe personality. Her skin was tan even though she usually spent most of her days inside. Her hair, once a raven black, now had streaks of silver flowing through it, making it closer to a gray. Her eyes were like two pits of the darkest blacks Tristan had ever seen. They would twinkle dangerously whenever she was up to something, which was most times. She reminded him more of an enchantress than the old woman who had practically raised him and stood by him for the past fifteen years. Sofia straightened herself and fixed her black eyes on him for the first time.

"It just came about?" she asked, her Spanish accent softening the words and making them seem sweeter. She spoke melodically and in such a fashion that it resembled poetry. Tristan nodded and raised an eyebrow. He was waiting for her to lash out at him, and to say how ignorant he had been to act without thinking. But Sofia did no such thing. She averted her gaze and stirred the porridge.

"I wonder who this girl might be," she spoke curiously, with no hint of anger or even irritation. "Maybe you will introduce me to her one day, yes?" she said, smiling. Tristan found it odd for some reason. Sofia rarely smiled.

"It depends if the marriage is even followed through with. I want her to confirm that she has agreed to marry me. In fact, I should call on them soon to get this day over with."

"Do not be so negative, mi amor. Not all are so quick to judge what is on the outside," she said while waving to the soft leather mask that lay lifeless on the table. It only had its full effect whenever Tristan wore it. As soon as it came off it lost its commanding presence.

"I do not marry her for love, Sofia," Tristan clearly stated as he kept munching away at the bread. Sofia paused briefly and then turned around, leaving the wooden spoon in the cauldron and placing her hands on her hips.

The gypsy lifted her chin defiantly. "Then why are you marrying her?"

"Because I can. I think her looks are engaging and, therefore, she will complement the great Tristan Hawthorne: general over the Angloan armies, Lion of the North, and now, Count of Cadherra," Tristan said, spewing out all his titles, which did not impress the older woman.

"Tristan," she sighed and walked over to him, sitting down by his side, "this girl is not another one of your trophies."

"Maybe not, but she has agreed to marry me." The woman looked deep within her acclaimed child, searching in his eyes for what he truly felt. But she saw nothing. It was as if he still wore the mask.

"Very well." She said nothing more, rising from his side and traveling back to the cauldron. She knew Tristan could be cold and unfeeling. He had always presented that trait ever since he was a child. She credited it to the abandonment he had received from his dead mother, who practically left the child to fend for himself. But sometimes his character worried her. Tristan was not one to take into consideration the feelings of others. He himself came before anyone else, and sometimes even Sofia had suffered due to that. She never let it show, however. The old woman already pitied the girl whom she had never met.

* * *

Later that day, after spending time walking around town and eventually becoming bored, Tristan found himself inside the house of his bride to be. He did not know how his feet had taken him there. After having spent countless hours at the market, acquainting himself amongst shoppers and general chaos, of which he secretly loved, his mind wandered while his feet took him away. He knew where Christine Vega lived of course, but his mind had spaced out and for a moment he found himself staring at the door of her old apartment. He knocked and the maid, a delicate little thing, opened the frail piece of wood that appeared to be a door. She stared in shock as his hooded form loomed over her outside of the decaying house.

He was led in into a cramped hallway, listening and watching as his name was announced. To say that the house had seen better days was an understatement. It must have been one of the family's old townhouses, and one of the less prominent ones at that, as it was in the middle circle, where no other families of noble blood ever visited save to enter or exit the city. The walls and floors were stained by months of mold and dust that had settled there. On the ceiling, there were cobwebs. The space, although large, felt cramped amongst the stacked furniture that lined the walls. The wallpaper, once a vibrant color, was now a decaying gray.

Tristan was sent into what resembled a gathering room, with a settee and sofa that were, surprisingly, clean and beige-colored, thus contrasting greatly with the other furnishings of the room. He chose to stand, as neither looked sturdy enough for him. The last thing he wanted to do was fall flat on his backside in front of his intended. The crooked shutters were all closed to prevent prying eyes from looking in from the street. Barely any light seeped in through the cracks. There were a dozen wax candles lit. They sat in wooden or old stone candleholders. The gold and silver candelabras must have been sold to allow the family to keep the house and fill their stomachs.

Tristan looked out of one the thick windows that faced directly to the streets. The shutters were so broken and crooked that half of the window was unprotected and he was allowed a view of the scene from outside. A few minutes passed by as he stood contemplating the streets below, checking that his mask was in place from time to time. Suddenly, a presence entered quietly behind him. Tristan turned around to see the mother of his bride to be. Lady Amelia held her hands in front of herself to keep them from shaking as she stepped into the room. She figured that she could take the chance to get to know her son-in-law. The woman was not ready to meet the larger man and the idea that her innocent daughter was to wed such a thing almost made her lose her composure. If it ever came to it, she would tell him that the engagement was off.

"My lord," she spoke, addressing him with his new corresponding title and curtsying deeply. Tristan only gave her a slight nod, holding an air of arrogance about himself. He soon sat opposite her on the sofa, that against every odd, did not break when he sank down on it. Lady Amelia sat on one of the settees slightly to his right.

"To what do we owe the pleasure?" she asked, her blonde hair slightly shaking in its hairdo as she attempted keeping herself still.

"I visited a dear friend of mine today and knew you lived nearby so I decided to come pay a visit. I wish to have a private conversation with your daughter regarding the pressing matter of our engagement." It amused Tristan greatly to see the woman swallow so hard. The guttural sound that erupted from her throat was so loud it was most likely heard from outside.

"Ah, I-I see. Well, she will be here as soon as she is ready." Almost instantaneously, an awkward silence fell where neither of them spoke. Lady Amelia decided to break the calm. "You say you want a private audience with my daughter, my lord?" The last few words were merely a whisper.

"Yes," came Tristan's dark voice. "What I have to say to her is best heard by her and her only."

"Do forgive me, my lord, but a private audience between a maiden and a man, unattended with not even a governess, that-that is frankly unthinkable!" Lady Amelia exclaimed, flushed and slightly angered at the nerve of the man before her.

"So, I might not speak alone with my fiancée because social etiquette forbids it? Or might it be that you are against leaving her here, alone and with me?" Amelia was quite uncomfortable with answering his question, as they were touching a subject she was not at ease with. It was evident what she thought of her son-in-law, but general politeness and common etiquette prevented her from giving him her piece of mind. This was tied in with the fact that his imposing figure scared the daylights out of her. Before she had time to answer, a soft, feminine voice came from the other side of the room.

"Do not worry yourself so, mother. I am sure that whatever the count has to say will not take long and I hardly think we are able to consider social etiquette anymore."

Christine stepped forward. She'd had time to mentally prepare herself, but even so, as she saw the masked man raise himself from the sofa, the lady recoiled inside. Her mother did not say a word and only curtsied and left the young pair alone in a matter of seconds. As soon as the woman left the room, she let her nerves take over. She wondered what her daughter had gotten herself into, and what it would take to stop her.

Meanwhile, in the gathering room, Christine dove for one of the gray settees-the one farthest from the sofa-where Tristan currently sat. They shared several moments of silence in which one secretly took in the presence of the other. While Christine took in the large form of her husband to be, her eyes wandered to the soft leather mask that covered his whole head. She could not see his eyes for they were shrouded in shadows. Tristan did not like it whenever someone considered his eyes, therefore most times he would keep to the shadows or incline his head slightly. The young woman's gaze wandered to the only part that was visible on the otherwise garbed and concealed form: his lips. She had heard that beneath the black mask there was a most horrendous face. But his lips looked normal. They reminded her of Roman lips, where the bottom was a bit fuller than the upper portion. They looked soft and inviting. She suspected they would even be charming if a smile were to touch them. It was the only part that seemed human to her about this man.

Meanwhile, Tristan glanced her way as well. She was beautiful. He could not find any other colorful words to describe her. The way her pastel yellow dress draped her slender body, and how the bodice hugged her midsection, tapering down to the full skirt that bloomed out and settled around her like a soft yellow cloud, made her look as if she descended from another plane of existence. Her golden hair swept back from her face. Her curls were loosely pinned at the crown and back of her head, leaving some of the shorter ones to frame her face, which was the way most Angloan women wore their hair. He was enticed by her striking eyes, a lavender blue that showed the gateway to her most inner thoughts. Tristan found that even though Christine tried to keep her emotions in check, some would escape and show through her expressive orbs. He fixed his gaze on her red, full lips that enticed him so. He had to stop himself from reaching out, taking her in his grasp, and kissing her senseless. He knew that what he felt for her was only carnal lust and nothing more.

"Miss Vega, I am glad that you have decided to join me at last," he finally said, his voice dropping a few tones. Christine's fingers went to her skirt, fiddling with it, but her hand froze when she recalled the strict composure she was meant to keep herself in. She overlapped them on her thighs while looking to the side of the mask so she did not have to stare directly at the man.

"I am sorry that I made you wait, my lord. I was not quite ready for the day," she confessed, regretting having said so the minute the words escaped her mouth. The man before her would probably imagine her undressed in her chamber, and Christine mentally cursed at herself. Tristan felt an eyebrow rise behind his mask but discarded what she had said, getting straight to the point.

"You might ask why I decided to visit you in such short notice, and why I decided to come here only the day after our engagement." Christine said nothing, allowing Tristan to continue. "I see myself as a man of honor. Title or not, I feel obligated to hear from your own lips that you have accepted the proposal and that you will indeed wed me soon, Miss Vega."

He rose as he spoke and took a slow turn about the dark room, never breaking the eye contact he had established with the younger woman. Christine felt uneasy, as he prowled about the room. His tall form seemed shrouded in shadows as little light seeped in from the closed shutters and the flickering of the candlelight did nothing to better her view of him. She felt cornered, for she had indeed accepted the proposal put forward by the king. Alas, as she met her future husband, she regretted her decision almost immediately. Part of her wanted to take it back, but part of her felt an obligation, an unwavering resolve that knew the pairing would be for the best. Her unhappiness was nothing compared to the idea of security her marriage with the future count would offer. The traitorous name of her family might be saved with her one act of courage. So as Tristan Hawthorne stood before her, demanding an answer, Christine was tempted to say no, as it was what she truly felt. She wanted to tell him that a marriage with someone like him was unthinkable and that she'd rather throw herself off the steep cliffs to the west of the island before letting him have her.

"I shall marry you and become your wife." She heard the words come from her mouth, but never felt herself truly say them, as if she were standing by the side, watching as she spoke the alien statement. There was no waver in her tone and she seemed decided. Tristan stopped pacing about the dark room and slowly went to stand directly in front of her, next to the couch.

"Then I shall await your arrival at Adelton Hall most anxiously," he said while inclining his head in a slight bow. Christine never rose to show him out, but then again, he did not expect her too. Tristan showed himself out and was soon on the streets, bound for Sofia again. He felt his stomach drop in defeat. The fear in his fiancée's eyes had not gone unnoticed and he knew that their future would not be a bright one. He knew that his presence caused her fright and suffering. Tristan had expected her to decline the offer and leave him be. Apparently, the hints he had dropped during their conversation had not been enough and it bothered him slightly that she would sacrifice herself in such a way only so that she might live more comfortably. Could it be she had already realized that the man she was marrying was more than he appeared to be?


	3. Chapter 3

**A TALE OF ANGLOA**

 _Chapter 3_

 _November 6th_

Tristan had never been to the southern part of Angloa before and the picturesque land appeared foreign to him. He traveled by group across the countryside and several soldiers that had been with him during the war agreed to accompany their general. Even if Tristan officially had the title of count, he was still seen as the General of the Armies of the North by many. The soldiers who accompanied him, the majority around twenty or so, had left little behind at home when the war started and thus had nothing to go back to. They decided to travel alongside their mysterious, masked commander and would either be provided with the charge of guarding his estate or given lands to farm. Lucius was also in the group, for he possessed a small estate in the same province as Tristan, only a day's ride south from Adelton Hall.

They had set out early the previous morning, while the sun had yet to light up the sky, for Tristan wanted to arrive at his new home as soon as possible. He knew he could not leave Angloa now, but at least he could get away from the hectic life at court.

Sofia turned down the idea of traveling amongst the group and Tristan found it probable that the pair never meet again. Like Tristan, Sofia viewed herself as a free spirit, and not one place could keep her tied down for long. The fact that Tristan was marrying meant that he would most likely settle for good and Sofia would have eventually left him. She had been with him ever since he was twelve years old and, despite the war, Tristan had gotten used to being with her for long periods of time.

It was a cold November morning the day he left, with frost painting the small wooden houses and stone palace of Wessport. Fluffy snowflakes fell from the gray heavens and the air was so cold that one's breath released a great white cloud whenever he or she exhaled. It was in this setting that Sofia had said goodbye to the man she had come to know as a son. Neither of them had ever truly shown their emotions to the other, save for special occasions, and now everything was so different. It was a parting almost rid of emotion. Only a few words were exchanged, the sounds muffled by the thick blanket of snow that covered Wessport. Tristan nearly turned around and left the old gypsy when suddenly her thin hand grabbed him by the arm, causing him to stop and turn around. She pressed something into his hands and told him to take care of it. It was a token from her and, during the coming winter, it would remind him of summer. Sofia walked away before Tristan could react. She was gone, her small form rounding a corner.

His eyes met the item in his leather-clad hands. It was a rose, or at least it looked like one. The material was not that of a flower but so like it that Tristan had been fooled by it at first. It was a rose made from soft, pliable wood. The petals had been shaved from soft bark and carefully painted to look like the red petals of a rose. The stem was a thin twig and had carved thorns twisting up the sides. The stem was carefully painted green as well, making the flower look as though it were alive. Tristan awed at the delicately-crafted item for a while, taking in its beauty. The gift was priceless to him, for it was a rose that would never die, keeping its form for as long as he took care of it. The cold of winter had no power over it and so he came to treasure the gift from his longtime friend.

A day later, Tristan sat in the saddle of his gray horse, knowing that the gift resided within his saddlebag, carefully wrapped so as to not break. Even if it was not a live flower, it was still delicate.

The group was made up mainly of soldiers. Even Joseph accompanied the count, although his home was to the west, around New London. The group spoke amongst themselves and the merry chatter made the silence of the surrounding wintry land seem less harsh. They still traveled in the flat countryside where the snow was thick, making the voyage even more treacherous as the carriages often times became stuck when they traveled off the main road. They were bound for even harsher climates; they were bound for the mountain range of Alban. It stretched almost from one end of the country to the other, except for a portion to the far east, where most travelers once crossed. However, Tristan intended on reaching Cadherra as soon as possible and the fastest way was through the mountains. After the mountains, a small forest sat at the foot of the gateway to Sorossa, a region filled with great flatlands. It also held the Rowan River which eventually led to the eastern sea. They would continue traveling down the flatlands, crossing the river and treading through the greatest forest Angloa had to offer: Raven's Grove. The forest marked the beginning of Cadherra. It would most likely take them the better of ten days if they did not stop too often. Christine and her mother opted for the easier route. They traveled by boat instead of crossing the harsh inland country.

"You seem troubled, my lord," came the baritone voice of Lucius as he rode up next to Tristan's gray stallion.

"Aye." The other man did not even look away from the road as he answered. Tristan resumed plotting the arrival, occasionally thinking about politics and what all he had gotten himself into. The winds started gaining strength. Both Tristan and Lucius rose their scarves to cover their mouths from the icy gusts of air that threatened to freeze their lips off.

"Do you remember that day the battle was won, my lord? Do you remember the request you asked of me?" For the first time, Tristan looked at Lucius and found the other man's worried eyes digging holes into his. Lucius was clearly eager to tell his commander about what he had discovered that very day.

"Aye," said Tristan once more. He looked around. There were too many people within earshot. Even Joseph cast a curious glance as they spoke. He knew Lucius had found information on a possible traitor, which was a grim realization that deeply troubled Tristan.

"Do not speak of it here, Lucius." Tristan glanced around and then looked back at Lucius as if silently telling him that it was a possibility someone might overhear them. "This is not the time nor place," were the only words needed to be said.

Lucius nodded and went back to chat with Joseph. The whole exchange of words seemed forgotten as they rode deeper into the storm.

 _November 11th_

The gray clouds gathered ominously in the heavens and stared down at the lone ship as it traveled south on the Atlantic Sea. Christine was on deck, surrounded by Angloan, French, and Spanish merchants who would stop for them at the southeastern port town of Coldwick. She stared off into the distance, wondering if the distant lands she perceived were either France or if she was gazing upon the Iberian Peninsula, where her father's old country lay. It was a land he had talked to her about many times. It had become a mysterious, romanticized nation, filled with tales of passion and romance, of the Muslims who had once dominated the fertile lands, and whose buildings still stood, like rare jewels, already forgotten by history and taken over by the force of another religion.

"My lady, will you not come below deck with us? I see a harsh storm on the horizon and I do not like the look of it," came Maria's soothing voice behind her. Christine looked again at the distant lands on the horizon and hugged the soft, gray furs closer about her as she willfully followed Maria below deck.

The knot that had formed in her stomach ever since the day of her engagement grew stronger with each rising sun. As she made way to her chambers, the younger lady did not look her mother in the eyes, who sat knitting in a corner, attempting to keep her mind off the sickening, swaying waves. It would be a long voyage indeed.

 _November 15th_

The long train of men and horses had crossed the difficult Alban mountain pass, which descended into Sorossa. It was noon, the day was rid of clouds, and the sun warmed their otherwise chilled bodies. It made for a spectacular sight. The hilly countryside claimed small, red farms, dusted with thick layers of powdery snow. White puffs of smoke escaped the brick chimneys. The roads were not as hard to plow through, as they had been rid of snow and salted, which secured the path for the horse and its rider. As the group descended into the picturesque countryside, the road became wider and the land flatter. Small, frozen lakes painted the landscape. The dark ice reflected the rays of the smiling sun, and the white snow almost blinded the men. Many were grateful, moreover, that it ceased to snow.

Several members of the group nearly lost their lives while crossing the mountain pass. The regular road, which snaked through an old mine, had been blocked by great masses of snow. Tristan decided not to wait but, anxious to get to Cadherra and to the warmth of Adelton Hall, tested the limits of his soldiers and servants. They persevered onwards to a steep and dangerous pass that was nestled between two vast, towering walls of stone. If the storm had continued to grow harsher they would have been trapped. At one point on the second day of their crossing, an avalanche was set off, burying two men and a mule under a mountain of snow. The men were found quickly and were able to be saved. Alas, the mule had perished, and lost with it were various items of armor and textiles. It served to alert the general of the pending danger of their situation, and not only that but of how foolish he had been to strive onward. Later that day, the group marked the end of the pass and were relieved they had made it out safely.

Tristan's sharp eyes gazed far away, to the black forest lining the lands on the horizon. It was Raven's Grove, the great forest that divided Cadherra and Sorossa. He had been talking to Joseph and Lucius earlier that morning before they set out, arguing about whether they should go through or around it. If they went through the forest they would spare a whole day of tedious traveling, yet there was a chance thieves or bandits might take a liking to their stock. The forest was famous for concealing outlaws and few ventured there, save those who retained such distasteful connections. The general was already questioning if he should risk his group's lives a second time and traverse through the woods, or if he should opt for the safer route and go around instead.

Tristan glanced back behind him and saw the tired but cheery faces of those who followed. As the day continued, they neared the forest and the general decided that they make camp for the night. Tomorrow they would decide where to go. He gathered the servants and soldiers around the large campfire. His hood was up, and a shadow fell over his masked face. He never had his hood down unless it was in his tent, for he did not want anyone to see his face. Tristan knew the mask was unsettling. Although the soldiers were used to it, he did not wish to have the servants stare at it continuously, nor the peasants and common folk that passed them on the road.

General Hawthorne looked out over his group. "I want you all to listen to me for it concerns everybody here," Tristan spoke, raising his voice so all could hear him clearly. He positioned himself on a raised part of the ground so that all could see him better as well. Around twenty soldiers stood further away, accustomed to keeping a perimeter and guarding the camp, but still close enough so that they could hear the dark voice of their general. Thirty-three servants, men, and women were closer to Hawthorne. They would make up the new household of Adelton Hall, together with the remaining staff. Everybody listened carefully and did not avert their gaze from the tall, hooded man that occupied the space in front of them.

"We will soon be at the doorsteps of Raven's Grove. There is no doubt you all have heard of it." Many of the soldiers and servants looked beyond Tristan, for behind him lay the dark forest. It seemed that the light of the snow did not touch the forest. There was something eerily quiet about it that unsettled most. The more simple-minded among them believed the common tales they had been told. They believed these woods were enchanted and that witches and warlocks inhabited the small spaces between the twisting branches and hidden thickets, for only evil could be contained there. The more intelligent of the lot knew there to be murderous thieves and criminals between nooks and crannies of the black limbs that reached out to them, and Tristan already was aware they were being watched.

"I see that the journey through the Alban pass has tired most of you. By going through Raven's Grove we save a day's ride, if not more." He paused and hesitated before continuing. "We might be beseeched by bandits. I will not ask all of you to go through such an ordeal and that is why I give you the option to go with Joseph. He will travel around the forest." All was quiet and some of the servants looked to Joseph, who stood at the right side of both Tristan and Lucius. A handful of older men and women went to him but most stood their ground with worry in their eyes. Yet there was something else. Tristan's men trusted in his ability to get them through the forest safely while the servants trusted in the tales they had heard about the fearless general. He would be sure to protect them from any witches or enchantments that might come their way.

"Very well," came the cool voice from beneath the hood and leather mask. "Tomorrow we set out before the first light hits the ground. We will part ways once we reach the forest." With that most went back to their respective places for sleeping, which was between carriages, or next to horses and mules, to protect from the harsh snow and winds that the Sorossa night had to offer.

Tristan went back to his small, white tent, capable of housing two people if they squeezed in. He had it for himself, however. His stallion stood just outside, as a precaution to guard him. Lucius was following suit, for Tristan had urged the other man to come with him. He was keen to hear what his friend had discovered in both the north and in Wessport while looking for the traitor. Tristan pushed aside the white fabrics and stepped into the modest living quarters of his tent. It obtained an open ground, a raised bed so he did not have to sleep on the cold snow, and plenty of furs and blankets to shield him from the cold. An improvised table made out of barrels stood in one corner, where maps of the region had been placed for study. Amongst them lay a map of Raven's Grove that Tristan had looked at earlier that day. Both men sat at the table while helping themselves to some mead.

"I gather you have important news for me, Lucius." Tristan could not hide his curiosity as he sipped on the alcoholic beverage. He pushed his hood back and did not fail to notice how Lucius slightly flinched at the sight of the imposing mask. The light of the candle gave Lucius insight to Tristan's eyes, and the smaller man immediately looked away. He did not wish to see his general's eyes, for he was afraid of what he might find in them.

"Yes, sir, and disturbing news 'tis." Lucius did not know where to begin. It would have been better to wait until they arrived at Adelton Hall before he unleashed such news. "I do not quite know where to begin, my lord," he spoke.

"Then start at the very beginning," Tristan calmly said. "I remember talking to you about the English forces knowing a little too much about the strategical positioning of our platoons, and how that might indicate a traitor in our midst." Lucius nodded. He remembered the conversation well, as it was the same day they had won the battle at Castell.

"I did as you bade, my lord. I began looking for signs of a spy and found that the night before the battle two men had been unaccounted for. One of them was in my platoon." Lucius felt ashamed that one of his own men might have been involved. "The other was a young lad belonging to the sixth platoon. He was found later that day on the battlefield, together with the rest of the bodies. He had an ax in his shoulder and had bled to death."

"Let me guess," Tristan continued, "that he had not been accounted for preceding to or during battle. Was he one of the presumed deserters then?" Lucius nodded. This worried him. The young boy must have found out something he oughtn't to.

"Indeed. My fear is that he had taken it upon himself to follow my man—my own man," Lucius said with a wavering voice, casting his eyes down on the table. A gloved hand reached up to his hair, grabbing at it desperately, as Lucius attempted to control himself. Tristan diverted his gaze. He knew what Lucius must be going through, but he offered no words of comfort on the subject.

"Lucius, who is the presumed traitor? Where is he now?"

"His name is Alan Moore. He is here, in this group going to Cadherra." Tristan's eyes widened as adrenaline rushed through his body.

"That means that whoever he is reporting to has decided to keep an eye on us." He raised his hand to run it through his hair but stopped himself. He was reminded that the mask was still there. Tristan rose from his seat and walked about the room. His tall, dark form resembled a predator ready to strike. His cloak floated about him eerily, without a sound, which made him look all the more menacing. Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime to him, Tristan turned around and stared directly at Lucius. The other man felt his blood freeze in his veins as the general's harsh eyes locked directly with his. They were blacker than night and the glint from his gaze induced fear in the smaller man.

"Bring him to me. Now."

 _November 18th_

The sun barely peeked through the dense forest. The majority of the group continued on with their torches, even with it being mid-morning. Harsh winds had blown across the lands over the past few days, but the gales could not reach them through the frosted crowns of the great ash and oak trees. The severe gusts had also served to block out the screams of Alan Moore, the spy that murdered one of his fellow countrymen for a mere sack of silver coins.

Three days before, Tristan and Lucius had tied the man to a chair and interrogated him. Lucius attempted using psychological play against him but was unsuccessful, as Alan Moore was reluctant to share anything he knew. But as soon as Tristan crouched down to Alan's level and pulled off his hood, the man squirmed. As the night progressed they began physically torturing Moore. They dunked his head into an icy bucket of water until he almost drowned. They then pulled his fingernails off, which had the man shrieking in pain. Lucius cut one of Alan's ears off, and his scarlet blood stained the pure white snow under him. He began weeping but refused to yield. Tristan was beginning to lose his patience. He knew he should have waited until they reached Adelton Hall, as the castle was bound to have some form of holding cell to imprison the man. But the general was keen on finding out who the other traitors were. He knew Moore would not succumb to any form of torture. It was most likely because the man was more afraid of who had paid him rather than Tristan and Lucius. Hawthorne knew he could change that in a heartbeat, however.

Tristan asked Lucius to step out of the tent. Lucius had hesitated because he had no idea what the general was planning. Alas, he obeyed and stepped out, guarding the opening while Tristan proceeded with his plan. The two stared at each other for a while until Tristan removed the mask. At first, Alan's small, brown eyes squinted as he looked deeper into the face that was mere inches from his. A good five minutes passed and Alan wondered if Tristan Hawthorne had perhaps gone mad. It was as if the general believed his face was cursed and that whoever glanced upon it would die a horrible death. The longer Alan peered into it, the clearer it became to him that something was very wrong with Tristan's face. The spy eventually found himself staring at his appearance with complete and utter terror. Something inside the man broke when the other adopted a sinister grin. Hell burned and fumed within his lifeless orbs. Alan's growing fear seeped out of all the orifices of his body and it made for a foul, rancid mess. Tears of horror trickled down Alan's face. He realized then that his mouth was open. The screams were silent at first until the man finally found his voice. "Leave me! No! No!" he shrieked at the top of his lungs. Tristan used the momentum to interrogate the poor man. Moore revealed all he knew in an instant. He had been bribed by a captain posted in Wessport, who probably reported to someone in higher command. He had been told to meet up with the English the night before the battle. If he gave them a certain letter, then he would be greatly rewarded. The man had revealed all that he knew, even the name of the captain: John Fletcher, someone whom Tristan Hawthorne surely would have a word with the next time he traveled to Wessport. When asked why he was in the group going to Cadherra, Moore only responded that he would receive a sizeable pay every other month if he reported everything the count did. Tristan did not let the worry show on his face.

He had risen from his crouching position and stared down at the man, aware he had to kill him right then and there, for the man had seen his face. Yet there was something inside Alan that seemed broken, as if seeing Tristan's face had sent him over the edge. He kept crying, mumbling to himself, and rocking back and forth. Tristan sneered at him and sighed, pulling the mask back over his face—a face apparently not even a grown man could look at without having a mental breakdown. He tied the laces to secure the leather hood around his neck and told Lucius to come back in again. The man had heard the desperate screams of Alan Moore and was unsure what he might find. When he saw the state the man was in, he did not dare ask what sort of tactics Hawthorne had used. Instead, he had the man taken to a secure place next to the tent and tied him up there. He would spend the night exposed to the harsh cold. If he survived such an event, Moore would travel to Adelton Hall and be locked up in the deepest, darkest dungeon they could find.

Later that day, Lucius snuck glances at Tristan as they rode quietly. He wondered what the general had done to scare the man so. The hooded figure took in his surroundings. They were traveling in a line with the exceptional width of five men. Servants and carriages kept to the medial of the group while the fiercer soldiers took the back. Tristan was unnerved by the quiet of the forest. The frosted crowns of the tall trees did not allow much light to seep through, and the road was surprisingly easy to travel. It had been cleared by someone who used it frequently. Either a premonition or basic instinct told him that there was an attack just waiting to happen. He felt overly tense as the time passed, the tension lingering. Hours went by and no one spoke, as the eerie forest seemed to strip any cheerful moods the group had had that morning.

Suddenly Tristan heard something between the naked bushes and the deep snow. An arrow flew by his head, which he managed to duck at the last second.

"Ambush!" Tristan yelled, sliding off his horse and taking out his swept hilt rapier and knife. Lucius did the same as the soldiers at the back of the line moved into formation, forming a protective circle around the civilians and servants who huddled beneath their carriages. Brute men stormed out of the solidity of the trees. They looked like wild creatures of the forest, with a crazed look in their eyes yet dressed in white rags and furs. They attacked fiercely and the battle progressed for a while. Tristan and Lucius took the front, where the battle was at its thickest. The pair plowed through the men, staining the white snow with fresh blood. Tristan's soldiers appeared to be winning the battle but something was amiss, as it was too easy.

As the thought crossed his mind, Tristan perceived figures in the treetops, pointing their bows-and-arrows at the group. Some even had newly invented weapons with explosive force behind them, teeming with fire: flintlocks. They were surrounded and outnumbered. Tristan, however, was too proud to admit defeat and pushed on. As he saw the men around him fall, pierced by arrows, Tristan decided he had had enough. The general ordered his men to stand down and the bandits closed in around them. While the soldiers dropped their weapons in defeat, the civilians gathered in a group, staying close to one another. They looked at the brutes with pure fear in their eyes.

One man stepped out from the band of white. He wore dark green garments with a gray cloak draped over his back. The man had one of the flintlocks resting in his left hand. He also sported a well-trimmed, dark red mustache and goatee. As he closed in on Hawthorne, it was evident that the well-dressed stranger did not fit in amongst the others. While the rest of the scoundrels looked rough and robust, he seemed refined and handsome even, with long, red locks, icy blue eyes, and a scar that split his left eyebrow in half. It gave him a charming air and Tristan felt his own eyebrow raise as he took in the appearance of the man before him.

"Well, what have we here?" he vocalized cheerfully, melodically and raising his arms in an arrogant gesture of welcome. The man swept his eyes over the group. The servants hugged each other as the soldiers continued looking at the weapons they had thrown to the ground. They wanted just one excuse to throw themselves at the stranger and recommence the fight. The man's cold, wintry eyes scoured over Tristan's hooded form, who was still clutching his bloody rapier and breathing heavily from the fight. Immediately, curiosity struck.

"Seems we've gotten quite the catch here, haven't we boys?" The men cheered and laughed. Lucius gritted his teeth in frustration.

The redhead walked even closer to Tristan and the wind changed as the two stood face to face. The leader of the bandits began circling the cloaked man, taking in every little detail, from the boot-clad feet to the black leather clad hands to the furs and cloak that swept about him.

"And whom might this be?" questioned he, genuinely intrigued by Tristan. The stranger was always on his guard, however. He gripped his pistol tightly and rested his hand on his sword at all times. Tristan looked up and pushed back the hood. The mask spoke for itself. Some of the bandits in the group stepped back and the redhead appeared surprised as well, but it was shortly followed by interest and mischievousness.

"Of course! I should have known," he started, taking a few steps forward. "Tristan Hawthorne."

"It seems my fame precedes me," Tristan answered dryly. The other man let out a small chuckle as he stopped in front of him.

"Aye, the great 'Lion of the North'." Tristan felt a twitch in the left corner of his mouth at the sarcastic intonation.

The man came uncomfortably close to Hawthorne. He looked straight into Tristan's eyes and did not divert his gaze for even a moment. The tension rose even more between the two. Lucius had kept a keen eye on them the whole time, as did the rest of the party. It seemed their general was ready to pounce on the fearless man. The other soon backed down, but he did not do so in defeat. Rather, he discovered what he wanted to discover.

"I wonder if you have heard of me, sir?" asked the redhead after a moment of long silence with almost a cheerful tone. Tristan was momentarily surprised by the man's sudden change in attitude. The previous tension that had hung around them was gone and instead there seemed to be a lightheartedness about the man.

"I cannot say that I have," Tristan answered, treading carefully. The general believed the stranger before him wore a mask as well. Only it was a charade—an act of sorts—and behind that charade lay danger.

The man seemed disappointed at the general's choice of words. "Well, I will not stoop so low as to explain to you who I truly am. My name is Henry Robin Saxton the Third and that is all I leave you with." He had a rather pensive expression on his face. Suddenly, with a smirk, the man added, "And your life of course, and those in your group. Today I only steal your valuables."

Few words were spoken as the robust thieves went to the carriages, rummaging through them for valuables. They took candelabras, tapestries, some satin fabrics, and most of the cutlery. Tristan felt the veins in his temples and neck explode out of sheer fury, yet when he reached for his sword, Lucius was suddenly by his side, cautioning his lord and urging him to take great care. If he had known who Henry Saxton really was, he would have been more cautious as well.

Tristan felt his dignity dwindle as he saw the white-clad men, together with Saxton, disappear into the woods. Although he had never been materialistic, he felt he had rather lost his pride in the confrontation than anything else. Once the bandits were gone, Tristan turned to a small ash tree and gave it a few punches, breathing hard in the process. The rest of the group looked at him worriedly but Tristan didn't care. He stopped to clean his bloodied sword, regaining his composure.

The group took only a few minutes to regroup, as they did not wish to idle in Raven's Grove any further. They were soon on their way, with a lighter load to carry and some with heavier burdens on their shoulders.

 _November 19th_

When the group had been shamefully robbed by Saxton the day before, they had not tallied for too long and in a few hours, the thick forest roof began fading away. The sunlight finally came down upon them. The light reflected on the powdery snow, blinding the travelers, as their eyes had become accustomed to the shadows and darkness of the forest for the past day.

Later, after having descended into a valley, the group passed by various small farms. They arrived at the edge of a town, which was where the castle grounds began. They stood on a hill, overlooking the picturesque scene. There were many chimneys, short and robust. Most of the houses had wooden frames, painted with red flowers and leaves. Others belonged to richer merchants, as they were made out of more expensive materials such as stone. They were larger, grander, and decorated more heavily. Tristan had never seen such a colorful town. It was Hayes, the heart of Cadherra. The town had managed to hold up quite well after the death of the late count. Beyond the town, Tristan and the party got a better view of the castle—their new home.

The castle was unlike anything Tristan had ever seen before. The style of the architecture alone was alien to him and left a deep impression. It emerged from the fog and seemed to be amongst the clouds. The structure was made from light stone, and somehow not tainted or sullied from the many years of rain. It looked relatively new and reflected the soft beams of the sun. The castle itself consisted of several erect structures on top of a cliff ridge. The elongated building was furnished with numerous towers, ornamental turrets, gables, balconies, pinnacles, and sculptures. Most window openings were fashioned as bi- and triforium. It was the living romantic dream of a medieval knight's castle, such as what one might find in a Chretien de Troyes tale.

A smooth carpet of snow lead to Adelton Hall. As they neared, Tristan noticed a symmetrical Gatehouse flanked by two stair towers, which claimed a deep arch as its entryway. The stone of the gatehouse was a much darker color, indicating that the individual building might have been built earlier and thus preceded the castle itself. There was movement going in and out of the gatehouse, for many people pushing carts lined the road up to it. Most of the carts carried food, supplies, and barrels, most likely filled with wine and other liquids. It appeared the staff and the chamberlain had been informed of the arrival of their new master, as ingredients for a feast seemed to be arriving.

As the party rode through the gatehouse, Tristan glanced at the two coat of arms lining the walls of the arched passage, one on each side. To his right was the Royal Coat of Arms of Angloa: three wolves, each of them bearing crowns, to represent the original three rulers of Angloa. On the left side was the Coat of Arms of Cadherra—his coat of arms. Tristan never thought he would actually have a coat of arms, or be able to claim one under his name. The design of it was simple enough. There was a blue outline and a field of gold with a white tree in the middle, a lone wolf at its foot. Now it belonged to Tristan.

The party received quite a few stares as they rode into the courtyard. It had two levels. The lower one was defined to the east by the gatehouse and to the north by the foundations of a rectangular tower and another unknown building. Tristan suspected that it was the chapel. The southern end of the courtyard was open, allowing the visitors a stunning view of the surrounding mountains and pinewood forests.

As the group was shown the entrance to the stables where their horses could rest, a short, pudgy woman followed by an ensemble of well-groomed men and women made way toward them. Her short legs seemed to be working twice as hard to keep up a rather fast pace. Her petite face was already flushed as she reached Tristan's group. The ladies curtsied and the men bowed. They all were dressed in the same clothes. The women bore simple, dark blue dresses with white chemise sleeves and aprons. The men wore dark blue suits with matching breeches. The jackets of the suits were decorated with something akin to silver. Sewn into the left upper corner of all the servants' outfits was the Coat of Arms of Cadherra.

"My lord, I bid you welcome to Adelton Hall," came the old woman's soprano voice, which did not match her stern gaze at all. She gave Tristan a good, long look, taking in his appearance. A thin eyebrow rose and she cocked her head slightly to the side, inquisitive.

"I assume you are Tristan Hawthorne, yes?" She almost seemed insecure but did not let it show. Tristan looked around and then back at her.

"Do you see anyone else here wearing a mask such as mine?" The servants had known their new lord was coming, therefore they must have also been told of his peculiar appearance. The woman's mouth turned into a thin line. She did not appear amused nor did she answer his question.

"The chamberlain," she continued, "is unable to meet you as he is bedridden with a fever, but I assure you that—" To the woman's surprise, and most of the servant's as well, Tristan disregarded her and headed straight for the opened door. A few minutes passed by before she began to follow Tristan. She motioned for the other servants to come along, hastening her steps as she chased the taller man. When she caught up with him, they had already entered what appeared to be the first court. There was a marble staircase that led up to the higher levels. Two tall doorframes were on either side of the wide stairs. This part of the building seemed newer.

"All I want to know, for the time being, Mrs...?" Tristan turned to face the older woman, looming over her and trying to scare her with his imposing figure. But all he managed to do was frighten several of the maids; the older woman did not budge.

"Hammond," she replied fumingly. It was clear that she was not used to being interrupted. It amused Tristan somewhat.

"Well, Mrs. Hammond, all I want for now is to be shown to my chamber, have a hot bath prepared for me, and be informed when dinner will be served. After my bath, I will take a tour of the castle by myself. You may show Lucius whatever room you have decided to give him. There will also be another group arriving tomorrow. I suspect that the leader, Joseph, is to be provided with a guest room as well." Mrs. Hammond looked as though she wanted to give him a sharp retort but held her tongue. She asked God to give her strength, for Tristan was her master and lord of the castle now. She was obliged to do as he bade, so she could do nothing else than obey.


	4. Chapter 4

**A TALE OF ANGLOA**

 _Chapter 4_

* * *

 _November 23_ _rd_

A small caravan of people made its way from Hayes to Adelton Hall while it was still dark. Although the white castle appeared so near, perched upon its high cliff within the valley, it was at least an hour away. The caravan was made up of working servants, people who worked long and tedious hours within the castle walls for a small pay. They did not have the luxury to live in the fortress. They had to settle for their small townhouses within the village.

The group of people traversed the same road every day as they had done for many years. It was a wide, dirt road, now covered by thick layers of patted-down snow. It led them through a vast meadow that made up most of the valley. The road continued up toward the cliff where the castle stood mighty, surrounded by snow-covered pine trees and standing just on the edge of the Duran Mountains. Gray clouds hung low and already, thick flakes were drifting to the ground as night gave way to day. The rays of the sun managed to break through the thick carpet of snow clouds and lighten up the villagers that walked chatting on the road.

The faint light of the sun shone on the white castle as well. Tristan felt the first rays of daylight hit his face, his eyelids fluttered open in an instant. He looked around himself and ran his hand through his hair, collapsing further into his soft pillows. The chill of the morning burrowed through the warmth of the cotton covers and furs that had protected him during the night.

The vast room still seemed foreign to him, he still had to get used to such luxurious surroundings. In the chimney, on the other side of the room, lay the dying embers of last night's fire. Every time he exhaled, a white cloud of smoke of his warm breath escaped his mouth. Tristan stepped out of the bed and onto the soft carpet. Its intricate details and design in red, black and gold covered a great deal of the space under him. The room was shaped like a square, with the left upper corner shaped diagonally. It had a door in the middle that led to a sitting room that Tristan decided to change into a study. Thick, long red curtains framed the tall windows. He went to open one of them to breathe in the fresh morning air. The window faced east, showing the Duran Mountains and the gardens bellow the castle. The low clouds had started to disperse as the morning slowly progressed and he saw mighty mountain peaks covered in snow. Bellow the castle, beyond the garden, snow-covered pine trees dotted the rocky landscape.

Tristan could hear the castle come to life. The smell of bread wafted through the rooms and the distant chatter and laughter of the servants made the fairy tale like castle seem more human. Tristan went to the windows facing west where he could see Hayes in the distance and people making their way from and toward the building.

The maids and footmen ran around preparing everything that might be needed for the day and settled into a well-practiced rhythm. Mrs. Hammond took in the quietness of the winter morning as she crossed the courtyard, making her way to the lord's chambers to wake him, as he had asked of her the previous evening. On her way to the west wing, she crossed paths with Lucius who seemed to walk the same way. After a quick exchange of words, Mrs. Hammond left Lucius to go to Tristan's rooms by himself. The old woman was not too keen on being particularly near the master more than needed. Her dislike for him had only grown ever since he had moved in. Due to his arrogance and hot-headedness, most of the servants seemed to run in the opposite direction as soon as they saw him.

As Tristan looked out through the window and glanced at the lands before him-his lands-there was a knock on the door. He guessed that it was Mrs. Hammond, there to personally awaken him, as he had requested the night before. Tristan liked to be up early, for to sleep the day away seemed extremely wasteful to him and he had a great number of affairs to handle throughout the day.

"General, are you awake?" came the baritone voice of Lucius, surprising Tristan. Lucius was usually the one to sleep in as long as he could whenever he had the chance.

"I am." Tristan walked to another door in his room, which led to a walk-in closet, too spacious for him. He did not have nearly enough clothes to fill it out. The door opened while he stepped into a pair of dark brown breeches and leather boots. Lucius walked into the room and stopped as he saw the mask on the nightstand next to the bed. Tristan appeared to be so comfortable in his new home that he had completely forgotten about his mask. Or he did not seem to care anymore? This was what passed through Lucius' mind at first. Tristan seemed to have discovered his slip up for he did not exit the closet room, cursing at himself for forgetting something so important.

"Lucius," Tristan said, standing in the shadows of the room so that if Lucius decided to walk in, he would only see his silhouette. "Will you… could you grab me my…" suddenly there appeared an arm holding his mask, it stretched through the door, blindly handing it to him. Tristan grabbed it at and hurriedly put it on. He stepped out from the shadows and the room and said nothing. Lucius did not talk about it either and only handed Tristan an apple while then going to sit in one of the soft leather chairs standing by the fireplace. As Tristan looked at the red apple and then at Lucius-who himself sunk his teeth into another one-he felt an eyebrow rise questioningly.

"They just came from Coldwick, fresh off from the merchant ship that came into port from Portugal yesterday". Tristan started nibbling at the sweet fruit while making his way to the other chair by the fireplace. It was a rare luxury few could afford, to have fresh fruit in the middle of winter.

"What news of Alan Moore?" asked Tristan, discarding small talk and jumping straight to the questions, as usual. Lucius felt a chill go up his spine just thinking about the man who had seen the face of the General and lived to talk about it.

"Better. His mind comes and goes. I just saw him this morning and he seems more cooperative today. But until now he hasn't said anything else. He has barely said anything and just stares at the wall every day." Lucius frowned as he cautiously continued. "Whenever we mention your name he starts pleading and begging us to protect him and spare his life." Tristan remained silent, letting his eyes rest directly on Lucius'

"What did you do to him that night?" It was a question Lucius had wanted to ask ever since the interrogation. No one knew about Alan Moore for Tristan and Lucius kept him a secret, locked away in a deep, dark dungeon since they did not know who to trust yet.

Tristan took one last bite of the apple before tossing it into the dying embers, stirring up some sparks as the wet fruit collided with the black, burning coals. He looked away from them and directly toward Lucius.

"I showed him my face." The masked man before him showed no hesitation as he said those few words, but Lucius was quite afflicted by them. They only served to fuel the speculations he had about the face behind the mask. He could only guess that the face had to be so scarred that it invoked terror in a grown man. The only visible area that was Tristan's eyes and mouth and the little skin he saw around them, and there Lucius saw no scarred or deformed tissue. The skin looked normal-healthy even-now in the light of day. He was not superstitious, and he did not believe in the rumors that there was a curse on the face of the man before him. However, people speculated about everything. Some argued that Tristan had broken the heart of a witch or a gypsy and received a curse from her. Others said that he had slain a sorcerer in battle and had a spell put on him in doing so. Some event went as far as saying that he had sold his soul to the Devil to win the war for Angloa against England. But those were superstitious speculations that the servants of the castle gossiped on about when they thought no one was listening.

"Lucius," Tristan said, interrupting his train of thought and changing the subject. "Any news from the group of soldier's we sent to Raven's Grove to investigate Saxton and his bandits?"

"No, they were supposed to report back to Captain Roger yesterday evening, but they never arrived. Roger said that if we hear nothing from them today we should think about sending another patrol."

"He is right. Maybe I should have sent more than 20 soldiers." Tristan became thoughtful, wondering if he had perhaps sent those men to an early grave.

"Let's not jump to conclusions yet, they might still arrive today, unharmed and with information to give us. I heard from Mrs. Hammond on my way here that Ms. Vega was expected to arrive later this morning. Let me handle the soldiers for now while you worry about receiving her and her mother. Maybe you should get dressed properly before she comes." Tristan looked down on himself and on his attire, he felt that the dark brown hoses, black boots, and white shirt were formal enough.

"Since when have I ever dressed properly?" he joked, masking the anxiety at the thought of having his bride to be and her mother coming to live in such close quarters. Lucius let out a small laugh and got up from his seat.

"I'll be by the stables, the courier should arrive with news from my own home this morning." Tristan nodded and watched as Lucius left the room.

* * *

"Oh, Miss, I can see the towers from here!" Maria burst with joy while looking out the window of the coach that had just passed Hayes a few minutes ago. "It is as splendid as ever, tis' like a Fairy Tale castle, miss!" she exclaimed, practically hanging out of the window while the coach went full speed. Christine did not feel the same bubbly excitement as her maid did. She pulled the gray furs closer around her while staring down at her hands. Their voyage seemed to have gone by too fast and now she was back to a place she thought she would never see again.

"Soon we will be home again, all will be as before my sweet," her mother said while resting her gloved hands on her lap. Christine did not respond, but she knew that nothing would ever be the same after the death of her father. As the coach climbed the hill that led up to the gatehouse she felt no joy in coming back and thought that perhaps their return was a mistake. But she did not voice her feelings, she only smiled and took her mother's cold hands in her own.

"We shall be happy again mother, you and I, we will not have to worry about anything anymore." They were empty words to her, with no promise. But they managed to bring a sad smile on her mother's lips. She knew her mother was not fooled by her.

"Maybe someday we truly will be, and this death will be behind us," murmured Lady Amelia.

The coach passed in through the gate and into the familiar courtyard, where Christine had played as a young girl. A footman opened the doors and aided the three women out of the coach while a familiar face stood before them with open arms. Mrs. Hammond smiled through held back tears as she went to embrace both mother and daughter. When she hugged Christine, she lingered a bit longer, pouring all her heart into the embrace.

"We have missed you, our little Christine," Mrs. Hammond whispered in her ear. Christine hugged her back and felt the nostalgic feeling of being home again.

"I have missed you more," Christine whispered back. They broke their embrace and Mrs. Hammond led them to their respective rooms. Maria could not help but notice the stares her young mistress got from the other maids as they walked into the castle. They seemed to be looks of malice, and she was glad that Christine did not notice.

"His lordship has taken the main chambers, as is to be expected," sneered Mrs. Hammond, showing her clear distaste for the man. "We have prepared the purple room for you, Mrs. Vega. Your old room is as you left it, Miss Christine," said Mrs. Hammond as they stopped outside the purple room, close to the center of the castle. Christine's room was close to where her parent's had been, where Tristan lived now. It was in the same wing, and even the same corridor as him.

"And where might his lordship be?" asked Amelia. Mrs. Hammond only scoffed but quickly remembered her place.

"Well, he seems to be busier chasing bandits in Raven's Grove than properly receiving his bride to be and his mother-in-law after such a long journey."

"Bandits? Oh, how exciting!" said Maria. Her golden eyes shining brightly as she turned to Christine. Mrs. Hammond lifted a thin eyebrow and her lips pressed together, holding her tongue while being in the presence of the ladies of the house.

"It seems Cadherra has changed little in our absence," remarked Amelia. She turned to her daughter and embraced her. "We are home now Christine, go, rest." Lady Amelia turned to Mrs. Hammond. "I hope that his lordship will at least have had something decent to eat prepared for us, we have only lived on salted meats and mead during this long journey. I think that both my and daughter and I could do well with a refreshing cup of Madeira and something green for once."

"But of course my lady, I will call on you myself when all is prepared. You will dine with his lordship and his acquaintances tonight," Mrs. Hammond explained. Amelia only nodded, trying to force a smile, but she never managed one at the thought of having to sit at the same table as Hawthorne.

Mrs. Hammond took Christine through the open spaces of the castle, through many familiar rooms and corridors. The tall windows allowed for the evening light to shine through. As Christine silently followed Mrs. Hammond, with Maria close to her, she looked around at her old home. They walked past the library, the doors that had once always stood open were now closed, as they continued making their way to her room. The promenade became a sort of tedious task to her. Christine thought that she would feel nostalgic but relieved to be home when she came back. All she felt was a burden on her shoulders. The castle evoked memories she did not want to recall, for they reminded her of what she did not have anymore. Both Maria and Mrs. Hammond were aware of Christine's gloomy countenance and they decided it best not to push any conversation.

The closer they got to her room, the more anxious Christine felt. When they walked past the chambers that had once belonged to her parents Christine looked away from the tall oak doors. She had no idea if Tristan Hawthorne was currently behind those doors, and she did not want to know. But the thought of being in such close quarters to him made her even more uneasy.

"I hope you find it as you left it, Miss," came the high-pitched voice of Mrs. Hammond. Christine snapped out of her thoughts and found herself standing in the doorway to her room. She was transported back once again. The room before her could not be hers. It looked like it belonged to a young girl that still thought unicorns grazed the meadow by Raven's Grove.

On the window, next to her bed there was still a carved bench in the stone, made more comfortable with cushions and a mattress, so someone could sit and read. Her bed still had the thin, see-through draping flying like a halo around it. The wall facing north was covered in tapestry except for in the middle, where a very ugly portrait of her family hung. She had painted it when she was eleven. It was framed by her father who had proudly declared his daughter an artist, even though it was unheard of that a woman could be a painter. Her vast, white dressing table still had her old trinkets, useless things she had picked up in markets in Hayes whenever Mrs. Hammond would take her. They were mostly carved figures, made out of wood that had then been hand painted by a boy she had been infatuated with. There were a few dolls that had seen better days that sat framing the lower part of the mirror. Most of them had been a gift from her father whenever he returned from his trips, usually to Wessport. The south wall of her room was lined with bookshelves and all of her books still stood there.

"I shall have them fetch your belongings here, Miss," said Maria as she and Mrs. Hammond exited the room to give the girl some much-needed space. Christine barely heard them leave as she walked to the small library her room held. She ran her fingers across the binders and let the fragrance of old paper fill her nostrils. For the most part, the bookshelves were lined with trinkets and silver. But what she appreciated most were the handful of books that stood neatly in the middle. Christine picked out a smaller tome, with a dark green leather binder. It had been her old diary. The young woman was not good at keeping one so the book had served as her place to gather her thoughts ever since she got it from her mother on her ninth birthday. She was about to open the book but suddenly put it back again. She did not want to reminiscence in something that had passed. Christine went to her bed instead and lay down in it, hugging the covers close to her. She was home in a place that now seemed foreign to her.

It was nightfall when Amelia walked behind Mrs. Hammond who held the candles steady, careful of not letting the wax drip. The click of her heels against the marble floor sounded through the dark corridors as the carpets that served to line those stone floors had been sold off after her husband's death. The candleholders that lined the walls stood empty as she'd had their supply of wax candles sold a year ago to save money. It appeared that Lord Hawthorne never bothered in making sure that new ones were bought, or he simply had not noticed how dark Adelton Hall was.

Amelia walked down the all too familiar staircase that led to the main dining room. She was surprised when she entered to find that the room was lit up. The fires blazed away, the table was filled to its brim with plates of delicious food. She saw that her daughter was nowhere to be seen and instead, by the table sat three men. One of them she recognized instantly. Tristan Hawthorne looked threatening as ever with his black mask and wild appearance. He did not seem to dress for the occasion. He wore a loose black shirt with a dark brown leather jerkin. The man had not even bothered to close it and it only served as a reminder to Amelia that even if lord Hawthorne bore the title of a count, he was still of low birth. He sat at the head of the table. On each side of him sat a man. One of them had sand colored hair and bright eyes. He looked wise for his age although Amelia could not guess the age of him. He was better dressed of the three, tastefully matching a doublet and breeches in red, with a light colored jerkin over it. The man to Hawthorne's left looked younger with golden locks and inquisitive eyes. He smiled at something the well-dressed man had just said. Tristan was the first to notice Lady Amelia's presence. He rose from his seat, and while doing so alerted the other two men of her presence. They followed in the count's manner and rose as well while the lady was shown to a seat next to the younger man on Tristan's left.

"Lady Amelia, it is a pleasure that you dine with us tonight," said Tristan while gesturing for a servant to pour her some wine in her metal goblet. Amelia only nodded, not too keen on speaking with the man just then. The way he looked at her made her uneasy and instead she turned her head toward the door, waiting for her daughter to show.

Christine entered only minutes after her mother sat down and took her first sip of wine. The men around the table were quicker to rise this time. Amelia had to recognize that her daughter looked quite lovely for the evening. She was wearing her hair half up, letting part of her long golden locks bounce freely on her back. She was wearing a modestly cut dress with a square neckline, with a faded swirl pattern. The dress was a soft light green, the same green that could be seen in the moss that grew in Raven's Grove. She was wearing a white shawl, modestly draped around her bosom area, but it only served to draw more attention to her delicate neckline and soft jawline. Christine scanned the room and as soon as she saw her mother she held her eyes on her the whole time she was led to her chair by the table. Tristan could not take his eyes from her the whole time. Joseph and Lucius took a few extra glances as well. When they were all seated, they commenced eating without a word at first. Tristan did not even bother introducing his two friends or asking about the health of the women. Lady Amelia found him extremely insufferable, arrogant and rude. Lucius caught Tristan's eyes and urged him to say something to break the ice.

"It seems that it went completely past me to make introductions," Tristan stated matter-of-factly while looking directly at Lucius. "Allow me to present Lucius Chaeld, baron I believe the title was. Alas, I commend him for being a great officer during the war." Tristan inclined his head toward Lucius who forced a smile toward mother and daughter.

"It is indeed a pleasure, ladies, to make your acquaintance."

"Allow me also to introduce Joseph Winston," Tristan paused, thinking, " the the third son of Viscount Roland of Bannria."

"Actually I am the fourth child. But since one of my older brothers decided to become a priest, my family basically thinks of me as their third son now," Joseph joked. It served to break the tension for it coaxed a small smile from Amelia and even a twitch in Christine's lips.

There was not much more said from Tristan's part during dinner after that. Christine noticed that he scarcely touched any food that was on his plate. Instead, Joseph seemed to be in charge of most of the conversation, and Lucius chipped in here and there. Joseph asked both Amelia and Christine about their trip and about Cadherra as he had not been to that part of the county before. Soon, Christine managed to open up a bit more and she and Joseph found that eventually, they were the only ones speaking at the table. When the final round of plates had been served and taken away, Christine excused herself and retired for the night. Lady Amelia followed suit and as soon as both ladies had exited the dining room the tension of the evening loosened a little. Lucius felt himself let out the tense breath he'd been holding.

"Well, I think that went extremely well, don't you?" Joseph said merrily, trying to lighten the mood. Tristan did not bother responding. He remained silent while retiring to his quarters as well.

 _November 25_ _th_

Christine did not leave the seclusion of her room the following days because she had no wish to stumble upon her fiancé by accident. Instead, she sat surrounded by furs, with the fireplace lit, reading every book she could get her hands on. It made her immerse herself into another world where her own problems disappeared for a few hours. She lived adventures and discovered exotic new places that she knew she would never visit otherwise.

Tristan on the other hand, had kept busy arming a small army of men. The group of soldiers he had sent a few days earlier to Raven's Grove had returned in smaller numbers. Captain Roger had been taken hostage by Saxton and his men. It was a blow to Tristan's pride, a second blow that he would not let pass this time. He wanted to see the bandit leader rot away in the dungeons of Adelton Hall.

He remembered well the words Saxton had said to him, that he was a famous bandit in these parts. But Tristan did not know where this fame came from he had never heard of the man before. But as the days passed, the whispers of Saxton were ever present both in the castle and the village.

When they had first made it out of the woods upon their arrival, he had sent a curious glance at Lucius who had looked just as clueless. In that moment he started wondering if they had not been taken for fools by a simple villager who pretended to be otherwise.

As nightfall descended slowly upon the castle, most of its inhabitants were still working hard to prepare for the coming day, as per usual. Only a select few-the lord and his guests-sat back and relaxed in the castle's drawing room. It faced east and was adorned with themes from the Arthurian legend. The walls had tapestries depicting the tales of old and courtly love. The furniture like the sofa, table, armchairs and seats, all in a northward alcove, were comfortable, made out of dark mahogany wood. The seats, sofa, and armchairs had geese feathers stuffing, the fabric was of a light blue and it made it very comfortable and homelike. During the day, the drawing room received a lot of light from the sun as the windows were big and tall. There was a grand fireplace where the flames of a fire danced away, bringing light and warmth to the room as the sun had set a few hours earlier. A carpet in white, gold, and reds, lined half of the wooden floor of the room, to better isolate the warmth.

Tristan sat in one of the armchairs, going through the report one of the soldiers had written earlier that day. It talked about the attack the group had received in Raven's Grove. The mask did not show it, but he frowned the more he read. Lucius sat on the sofa, by the fire, opposite Lady Amelia, playing a game of chess in good spirits. Lady Amelia squealed in delight whenever she managed to knock another piece off the board, coaxing small chuckles from Lucius. Joseph sat on the other side of the sofa reading a book, looking quite bored while he tediously flipped the pages. Christine was nowhere to be seen.

Mrs. Hammond walked in through the door with a tray holding cups. She commenced placing them next to each person as a maid next to her poured a warm ruby beverage in the cups. It was a spiced wine that Lady Amelia had asked for earlier that evening after dinner. As the maid poured the liquid in Tristan's cup he put down the stack of paper and stared at the goblet.

"Who is Robin Saxton?" asked Tristan in a general direction. The maid paled and spilled a little of the liquid on the blue mantle that lined the round table that had been next to him. She immediately apologized and started cleaning up. Alas, she never answered his question, nor did Mrs. Hammond. Tristan looked at the maid directly in her eyes and asked again, making her even paler. He did not know if it was because he had only spoken to her or if the name of Saxton invoked such a reaction.

"Mrs. Hammond thank you that will be all. You may leave," came suddenly the stern voice of Amelia. Mrs. Hammond appeared to send a grateful look toward her mistress and made haste, together with the maid. As both women left the room Tristan looked over at Amelia, who had stopped her chess game with Lucius and met the irritating gaze.

"I did not say that they could leave," Tristan remarked, pointing toward the door where both servants had left. "What makes you think that you may just order around my servants in my house?" he snapped, standing up and slowly walking toward her. Amelia gathered her wits and stood up as well. She was not too keen on talking directly with the man, but she felt safe in the presence of his friends. She doubted that he would do anything to her. Yet, she felt insecure as those two holes in his mask bore into her.

"Of course my lord, it was disrespectful of me and it shall not happen again." After having stared her down for a few minutes, Tristan walked over to the chair he had been sitting in and sat down again, but he did not seem pleased by her answer.

"Perhaps you know of whom I'm speaking," his dark voice boomed, the sound expanding in the otherwise quiet room. Amelia was thankful that her daughter was not there in that moment. For she was positive that Christine would have surely spoken out to defend her mother from that monster of a man.

"I do indeed," she simply said, knowing well that he would want to know more. His silence spoke for itself and Lucius and Joseph were fully attentive as well. She sighed and sat down, folding her hands in her knees as she looked away and out the window.

"Robin, as he is known now, used to be Henry Saxton the third, Duke of Sorossa. He was a very powerful man in his day my lord." Amelia paused slightly, while the story of Robin's life slowly started unfolding, for it was a memory she had repressed for a while now.

"When the war started with the English three years ago, he was first in line to defend Angloa. While he fought for his country, another nobleman claimed that lord Saxton had conspired to strip him of his lands. Unfortunately, the evidence against Saxton was overwhelming. He was stripped off his title by the king, even after one of his advisors tried convincing him that it was not the right way to go. When Saxton found out that he did not have any home to return to he blamed it all on his wife and young son, who had not lifted a finger to defend his name. It is said that he went to his home, got past all the guards and killed his own family. Saxton tried then to kill the man who had received his lands but failed. His majesty saw it as an act of treason and madness and imprisoned him on the island of Ciphe. He escaped and went on a killing spree while he made his way to Raven's Grove. There is where he currently resides with his band of thieves. Now those who pass through Raven's Grove are robbed and killed by him." She finished her story and found herself inquisitive.

"But how is it that you know of this man?" she asked.

"We were robbed by him, madam," said Lucius without thinking. Suddenly he realized that it might be information that Tristan did not want to be revealed and he realized his mistake all too late. Amelia looked shocked, both at Lucius and Tristan. Joseph as well, for he had not known of it either. Tristan had made sure that none of the group spoke of it to anyone.

"Then how come you are alive?" she exclaimed in shock and horror. To her dismay, a small part of her wanted Tristan to have perished in that forsaken forest. That would have been the end of that arrogant atrocity.

"We were enough men to defend us from such a fatal end madam," Tristan growled while looking at Lucius. "But it seems our valuables were not as lucky," he added. He knew that any more information about this man would be simple speculation. He had gotten a general idea about Saxton, it was enough to go on for now. The man might have been impulsive when he killed his family, but now he seemed more clear-minded. That ambush in Raven's Grove had required a great deal of planning. But if it was something Tristan was good at, it was planning and strategy. He rose from his seat, grabbing the report and motioning for Lucius to follow him. Tristan was determined. He would rescue Captain Roger for he never left anyone behind and he would not start now.

 _November 26_ _th_

Christine woke later than usual. It was a gloomy morning when she looked out from her window. The rain that fell in big droplets from the sky washed the remaining snow away and turned the valley into a muddy mess. The landscape reflected how she felt herself: gray and gloomy.

Ever since they had arrived she had tried to keep to her room. Maria and Mrs. Hammond were the only ones who saw her for they brought her food to her room and tried to keep her company throughout the day. Mrs. Hammond would speak of the intrigues of the castle, and she would complain about Hawthorne's arrogance. Maria, on the other hand, was more perceptive. She noticed that whenever Christine did venture outside from her chambers, the other servants looked at her with disdain in their eyes. They would sneer and whisper when she was near. To them she was still a traitor's daughter and, many were happy seeing her trapped in the castle with a frightening man like Tristan. Sometimes, when Maria passed her chambers, she would hear the faintest sounds of sobs, but whenever she rushed in to comfort the girl, the tears had already been dried.

Christine chose to suffer in silence and to shut herself away from the rest of the world. Maria had no idea why she chose to suffer like that, for she still had her and her mother. But whenever she brought the subject up, Christine would shut her out even more. In one year, the bright, headstrong girl she once knew had completely turned into an empty shell of a person. She was a frail, thin thing and both Maria and Mrs. Hammond were afraid-if nothing was done soon-would waste away.

Christine felt that the nights were the worst time for her. For when she lay her head to rest her dreams constantly reminded her of happier days, she saw flashes of her father and mother, all in bright and vibrant colors. Sometimes she could hear her fiancé in the corridors walking to his room. Tristan had never bothered seeking her out and she was grateful for it. The longer she stayed in Adelton Hall, the weaker her resolve became.

A soft knock could be heard, three silent taps and then a fourth, stronger one. It was Maria and Christine voiced her to come in. The brunette walked in, holding folded blankets in her arms. She motioned for Christine to get off her bed so she could change the sheets.

"My lady should dress more warmly today, it looks like it might snow later," Maria said while removing the white linens and spreading fresh ones out on the vast bed.

"I will not go out today Maria, so I think I shall be fine in my room." Christine wore nothing more than her nightgown. It was a white simple dress with long sleeves and a low-cut neckline. It could be worn under her summer gowns, but now it was too cold for winter, and a thicker fabric was needed to isolate the body. She wore a wine-red robe over it, sleeveless and no fastening in the front. The neckline was lined with fox fur to provide extra warmth.

Maria left the half made bed and placed her hands on her narrow hips. She gave the woman a stern look, letting her golden eyes run over the frail figure of the blonde.

"I do not see it fit that you waste away like this my lady. You have overcome much this last year only to finally return home and end it here. I will dress you myself if that is what it takes, and I will take you wherever you please, as long as it is not your room." There was a determination in Maria's voice that did not falter. For even if she spoke to her mistress, she was not afraid to voice her opinion, if that meant she had to insult her. Christine's hands turned into two fists as she kept back an unladylike retort, but there was a spark of irritation running through her eyes.

"Finally!" Maria exclaimed, raising her hands and letting out a dry, sarcastic laugh. "Some emotion." She did not wait for more and went to the wide wardrobe and proceeded to pick out clothes for her lady.

"I did not say I would go out Maria," Christine said, feeling angrier by the minute. "And you will not speak so informally when you are with me!" She rushed over to her maid and pushed her away from the opened doors to where all her gowns hung, closing them in a swift motion.

"Leave me be and do not come back." Christine pointed at the door and Maria looked at her baffled. She went to the bed, placed the last of the sheets and covers and headed for the door. But before she left, she turned around and looked at her mistress with pity.

"If you continue pushing away those that really care for you, you will soon be left with no one, my lady." And with those words, she left Christine standing alone. As soon as the door closed Christine cursed herself at her foolishness. Why could she just not accept her fate and learn to live again? She knew that there were people in worse situations than she and that she should be grateful. But even if she kept telling herself that, she could still not fool herself. After a while, she glanced to her favorite windowsill and decided that perhaps she needed some air to calm herself. Christine dressed in a front laced dark green gown with black trimming. Underneath she wore a white partlet in black and she confined her golden tresses in a black net. She went to the door and listened carefully so that she did not accidentally stumble upon anyone outside. When the coast seemed clear, she made her way to the library.

The library was grand indeed, with books lining a grand room with a tall roof. There were three stories of books and although most of them were tomes, there were many books filled with courtly love and tales of knights and their ladies of old. She picked her favorite-the Chant of Roland, and sat in one of the chairs closest to the fireplace while she commenced reading. She had yet to finish the first page when she sensed a pair of eyes on her. Christine put the book away and turned around to see who was watching her. She met two smiling blue eyes she put the tome down. He motioned toward the book.

"Please, my lady, do not let me disturb your reading," Joseph said as he went toward her, sitting in one of the armchairs next to her.

"You did not disturb me," she remarked.

"Yet you are not reading anymore," he retorted jokingly. Christine remained silent and only looked at him with no expression on her face. Joseph rose from the chair and bowed lightly in an apologetic manner.

"Forgive me, my lady, it seems I intruded where I should not have, I shall leave you to your books and adventures," he smiled and started walking toward the door.

"Wait!" came the soft voice of Christine, she put down the book and moved her body so that she was facing him.

"To be honest, I could not get into the story as I was quite bored, sir, but please do not think that I find your presence unwelcome," she said shyly. Joseph gave her another boyish grin.

"I have tried in vain to find amusement in these books. But I find myself as bored as anyone who is not used to a quiet life of just sitting around reading." He extended a hand toward her in an inviting motion. "How about a stroll in the gardens? Most of the snow has washed away from the rain and it will be easier to move around there now." Christine did not answer directly at his request, she thought that maybe it might be best to just go back to her room. She also worried. She knew of the disdain the castle servants had for her. Yet she did not want to kindle the fire of scorn further by being alone in the presence of a man without someone to chaperone them. It was unthinkable.

Alas, against her better judgment, Christine put away the book and followed him. All the way to the gardens Joseph kept a tasteful distance between the two. She was someone else's betrothed and he respected that. He talked most of the time while Christine listened. She was lulled to a sense of peaceful awareness by his tenor voice. He talked about how much he liked Adelton Hall and Cadherra and of how different it was to his home in New London. As they exited the castle, they arrived in the lower grounds. There a small path led them through the trees that dotted the steep hillside and took them to a secluded garden. In summer it was a splendid sight, hidden amongst the trees. It housed a grand variety of marble fountains depicting scenes from Greek mythology. There were naked hedges and carpets of dead grass lined with various empty earth plots where flowers would bloom in spring. But now all that flora and fauna would not emerge for another five months and the gardens were lifeless. Yet Joseph kept on talking about how wonderful it was there. He then went on to joke about one particular fountain that depicted three little cherubs. He remarked on the likeness they bore to his brothers whenever their mother was angry with them. Christine felt a lighthearted laugh escape at the thought of three grown men depicted as small baby angels.

"I thought it was prohibited to be happy in this household," Joseph said as soon as Christine let out her laugh. She gathered her wits and cleared her voice, feeling slightly embarrassed.

"How could anyone ever prohibit laughter?" Her voice seemed sad as she spoke. Joseph nodded knowingly and suddenly became serious.

"I shall not pretend to know what ails you, my lady, but even a blind man could see that you are not happy. I can only offer encouraging words. As far as I see it, your mother, Mrs. Hammond and that maid of yours do nothing but worry for your well-being." Christine glanced down on the cold, frozen ground. The chilly winter air swept past them. She was surprised that it was Joseph-this man that she hardly knew-that would be the one to make her laugh when she had not laughed for months.

"I know that they are there for me," she said.

"Tristan might seem intimidating, but if you give him a chance he might present himself as more amiable." Joseph paused, noticing how Christine was shivering in the cold. "Give it time," was all he said before suggesting that they go back. On the way back they did not speak more, but it felt good to have that silence between them.

When Christine closed the door to her room behind her she sighed, she did not need Joseph to worry about her as well.

 _November 29_ _th_

There was quite a stir in Adelton Hall that morning while Tristan Hawthorne and Lucius Chaeld were rallying their men, at least twenty. They were on a quest for honor and retribution. Tristan dressed like a soldier again, in all black, to scare his enemies. He had a cape on diagonally across his back as it was commonly worn, and he had his sharpened sword and knife close next to him. Lucius and the other men were dressed in soldiers garb as well. They sported black shirts and pants with dark brown boots, black jerkins with high collars and dark capes, diagonally placed over their backs. They were armed to the teeth, like the mercenaries of old, with swords, arrows, knives of various sizes and plenty of throwing spears. Tristan had seen to it that they were prepared for they were riding toward Raven's Grove, to end Saxton once and for all.

"What is all this commotion?" came the familiar high-pitched voice of Mrs. Hammond. Her short little legs had taken her to the courtyard where the small army stood. "Oh my," she said under her breath at the sight of the men. Many of the servant women had gathered to witness the train of soldiers ride to their end. For they were certain they were going to their deaths. But the sight was indeed an impressive one. They felt taken back to the days of old, when feudal lords rode out all the time, defending their lands from other invading lords, thieves, bandits or enemies from the east.

Tristan mounted his gray stallion, Cid, in a swift motion, even though he wore plate armor covering his chest, shoulders and upper arms. It was painted black with golden details on the edges and with ornamental embossing. Underneath he wore a gambeson in dark blue, a padded jacket constructed out of wool, to warm him in the chilly weather. He looked about himself and felt satisfied at the sight of his men, the best men that the castle held. He saw Mrs. Hammond in the corner of his eye. She stared at them with her mouth in a thin line and at the time he wondered what she was thinking about.

"Formation!" shouted Lucius, dressed for war as well, and the ones mounted on horseback formed a line of the width of three horses. Tristan and Lucius kept to the front of the line while Joseph kept the back. They set out from the courtyard in a trot and made their way to the east end of the forest, where there was no path. If they went by Hayes, the bandits might be warned of their approach.

As they neared the treeline Tristan felt the familiar rush of adrenaline he got before every battle. He felt his body tense at the impending fight and started taking in his surroundings. Raven's Grove was an entirely different sight when one strayed from the road. It was wilder and darker than before. As soon as they crossed the threshold and wandered into the black depths of the forest, the surrounding became gloomier and the men grew more alert. It was almost as if an unnatural force was present there. Many huddled together and gripped their steel weapons in fear of the unknown, feeling eyes drilling holes into the back of their necks. There was no song from the birds, nor even the faint sound of the wind, that had been so strong that morning. To their better judgment, Raven's Grove was a tomb, incapable of housing any life. The soldiers wondered how Saxton and his men could stand living under such circumstances.

Tristan was on the lookout as well. The plan was simple enough. As soon as they had ridden into the forest, the group had split. Ten soldiers that had come on foot had slipped in between the trees, without any armor so they could move more silently. Joseph was amongst them, for he was an expert in keeping a low profile when necessary. The scouts would hide amongst the trees while Tristan and Lucius, together with the rest of the group, would be the bait and lure the bandits out. The idea was then to have Joseph's group attack when they were sure that no more bandits were hiding.

There was some movement up ahead and Tristan gave the silent signal that they might be watched. It did not take long for the brutes to come charging out of the trees and the battle commenced in the blink of an eye. The soldiers fought fiercely, but the bandits were superior in both fighting style and strength. When more than half of Tristan's men had fallen Saxton himself emerged from the trees and their eyes crossed. Tristan, covered in blood from the many men he had slain, picked up his sword and walked toward Saxton with determined steps. Saxton smiled and unsheathed his sword as well. The battle surrounding them seemed forgotten and in their eyes, they were the only ones there. The sound of their steel clashing seemed to sound higher than anything else in that forest. The masked man and the bandit fought on for what seemed an eternity.

"I must commend your lordship, you are either the bravest man I have crossed paths with or the most foolish one," shouted Saxton in between the clashing of their blades. Tristan did not answer and continued attacking. His sword was lighter than Saxton's, and his grip was different. The other man carried a heavier broadsword, which required both hands and it tired him faster.

"I must confess that I have never seen anyone use their sword in such a way," Saxton said in between breaths. He was getting tired and it showed on the sweat dripping from his forehead. "You are a great fighter indeed-"

"Never have I known anyone to talk so much while fighting for his life before," Tristan growled, interrupting the other. Saxton grinned through the fatigue. He found the masked one before him to be a worthy adversary after all.

"Don't take offense General! I take our fight very seriously, I just feel that a little conversation can never go wrong." Tristan was getting angry, wondering if this man took anything seriously. Their blades locked in one moment and both pushed against each other while their faces neared. They glared, eye to eye, Tristan frowned while Saxton grinned, showing off his pearly whites.

"You have fought with honor friend, but you have lost again," Saxton said and pushed Tristan away. Up in the trees stood more men, aiming their bows at the remaining group of soldiers fighting for their lives on the blood-covered ground. This was what Tristan was waiting for, Saxton had played all of his cards.

"It is you who has lost," Tristan retorted and rose his sword in the air as a signal. Out of nowhere, arrows flew through the naked trees, hitting the men that stood in the barren crowns. Those hit fell to the ground, receiving fatal injuries as they landed hard. During the tumult, Tristan and Saxton clashed blades yet again as Joseph and his men burst through the trees, fighting off the brutes and turning the tables on the battle. Tristan now had the upper hand, just as he had planned it. When Saxton realized that he was losing he sneered but then, to Tristan's surprise, he grinned once more.

"And here I thought that they exaggerated about your strategical wit." In one swift motion, Tristan disarmed Saxton, who had loosened his grip on his sword out of fatigue. The surrounding fight went on still. The thin blade of the masked man pressed against the throat of the bandit leader.

"Yield here, and I will spare your life," growled Tristan, feeling the adrenaline of victory. But Saxton did not say a word, he only stared at him defiantly, almost as if asking him to kill him. After a while, Saxton spoke.

"It seems that I hurt your pride more than I thought."

"If this were about pride, I would have slain you the moment I saw you, Saxton," came the arrogant voice of a man that knew he had won. Tristan looked down on Saxton and pressed the tip of his sword further into the neck of the other man, drawing blood.

"However, I will not lie. Part of me has taken offense and there have to be repercussions. I am here because I leave no man behind when I know he can be saved."

"Ah yes, Captain Roger."

"You will release him and any other of my men that you have taken hostage and I will pardon your life," said Tristan. He had to hurry, as they were speaking, more were falling in battle. He did not want all of his men to fall and the whole mission to have failed just because the man he had defeated was talkative. Saxton's indifferent attitude and sly grin suddenly died down and in their place was a pained and hateful expression.

"I would rather die here, by your sword, than rot away in a cell until I die of disease," the redhead spat, rising to his feet staring defiantly into the eyes of the other.

"Maybe you are too afraid that you will become overburdened with the guilt of having killed your wife and son in your confinement," Tristan sneered. He felt that killing the man before him would surely rid the world of yet another evil. Those words seemed to trigger something in Saxton and there was a spark of pure, contained, anger in his eyes.

"I suffer every day, not only because my wife and child were killed in a cold blooded murder, but also because I am blamed for it. I am a man with honor, even now, as a bandit that only takes from those who can afford it so that my men and I may survive. Do not speak of things that are beyond your comprehension, Hawthorne." Tristan could not ignore the truth he felt in those words, but he had no time to argue if Saxton was speaking the truth or not. The surrounding men were falling like flies. He had no time to idle any longer. If he had to, he would let the thieves go this time. He was sure that if he and his men went in for a second attack, they would completely vanquish them.

Tristan could not ignore the truth he felt in those words, but he had no time to argue if Saxton was speaking the truth or not. The surrounding men were falling like flies. He had no time to idle. If he had to, he would let the thieves go this time. He was sure that if he and his men went in for a second attack, they would completely vanquish them.

"If you feel that way about your family then maybe you care for the lives of the men that fight with you. Let us end the battle here, get me my captain and I will spare all of your lives," Tristan offered. Saxton nodded and called his men to surrender. They did, and the fight was ended. There had been a significant bloodbath and although many men on Tristan's side had not died, many had been severely wounded in battle and needed acute medical care.

Saxton had one of his men run to their camp, disappearing in between the trees. This was only after hearing from Tristan that if the thief brought more men, Saxton would fall dead faster than he could say "attack". So the frightened man ran as fast as he could, bringing the captain and two other men back with him. Roger stared at the bloody scene before him in awe and then at his General and bowed his head in deep gratitude. When all seemed in order, Tristan kept his promise and let Saxton go with the rest of his men.

"If I hear of another attack coming from Raven's Grove me and the rest of my men will return, in greater numbers and vanquish you all," Tristan threatened, the bandits felt the dark eyes on them, making them uncomfortable and squeamish. They did not like being close to him longer than necessary, yet they respected the man deeply for having come back for one of his own.

"You are truly a man of your honor and I give you my deepest respect, Hawthorne," Saxton said as he closed in, talking in a low voice that was only meant for Tristan to hear.

"They will squash you like a bug if you are not careful," Saxton suddenly whispered and then went away with his men. Tristan stared at him and suspected that Saxton was talking about the court when he spoke like that, but he could not be sure.

"My lord, quickly, come!" came a voice from one of his younger soldiers. Tristan turned away from the bandits that had disappeared in between the trees and walked over to his men that were tending to the wounded.

"What is the matter?" he asked, looking at the teenager before him.

"Tis' Sir Joseph m'lord, he's been badly wounded!" said the soldier, while pressing on a wound that would not stop oozing blood. Indeed, Joseph looked badly hurt and pale as a ghost due to so much blood loss.

"Have the worst wounded put on horseback and taken to the castle and make haste," Tristan said calmly, he could not show worry now. But he felt it for many of his men and he knew, from experience, that many would not survive the night lest a physician was called soon to the castle.

"You," Tristan pointed to one of the men he knew to be a native to the valley. "Take my horse and go as fast as you can to Hayes and bring the local physician back with you to the castle." The man said nothing and rushed to the great stallion and was on his way. Meanwhile, the rest of the group made it slowly back to the castle, to lick their wounds and rejoice at their victory.

* * *

 **Note: Hi there, another update here. I would like to say thank you for all the reads, reviews and follows/favs, it really gets me going. I would like to give a big thank you to Shiloh Grace who's given me a few tips and tricks to better my writing. She also pointed out that even if this is set in the 16** **th** **century, my English isn't quit mimicking how they spoke in that time. So to clear that up for everyone, I decided to make my English a bit more modern here since it will be easier to be consistent and also easier, I think, for the readers. I also had another remark on how my chapters are a bit long, but trust me, I just have so much I would like to put into detail that if my chapters were any shorter, this fic would never finish haha.**

 **Another detail, I have a map for Angloa that I'll be putting on my profile for those who are interested in the geographical outlay of the land. It might be easier to imagine the country if you can actually see it before you. I would also like to note that Adelton Hall is inspired greatly by Neuschwanstein Castle, do look it up on Google and you'll understand why I chose it!**


	5. Chapter 5

**A TALE OF ANGLOA**

 _Chapter 5_

 _November 29th_

The whole morning had been uneventful. The heavy gray skies had opened up around noon, letting yet another shower of snow fall down in the valley. At one point fog descended from the mountaintops. As it crept down the steep rock formations, the inhabitants of the castle found themselves blind in an icy inferno.

George, the chamberlain of the castle, felt that each winter became harder than the previous one. His back had grown slightly crooked, from years of carrying heavy objects and items up and down the slippery stairs of the fortress. His eyesight was not as good as it used to be. His limbs grew excessively tired whenever he used them too much.

He was surprised that he had not perished from his fever. Although, it had left him week and bedridden for a while. He strolled through the ornamented corridors of the splendid castle with Mrs. Hammond by his side. She was getting him up to speed with the latest events that had occurred during his absence.

"I have the receipts of the latest dealings with the merchants from Coldwick. I am uncertain if the prices have risen because this winter is growing harsher or because they were dealing with a woman this time," Mrs. Hammond sighed while handing over a neat stack of papers kept in a leather portfolio.

"I am sure all is in order Mrs. Hammond, but paperwork is paperwork." He did not even bother to look at the documents and instead changed the subject to something that interested him more. "I would like to know a little more about this new lord of ours," chuckled George as they kept walking. Mrs. Hammond grew red with apparent irritation at the mere mention of Hawthorne and defiantly turned her head up, clenching her jaw.

"I have done as best as I could, I am only grateful that the responsibility no longer lies with me," she spat without thinking that she was talking to a superior. Alas, the relationship between George and Mrs. Hammond had always been a relaxed and friendly one. The chamberlain had never been much for upholding the norm of rank and courtesy. He was polite indeed, but the servants and the other inhabitants of the castle loved him. It was because he treated every single person, be they of low or high blood, with respect and friendliness. That was probably one of the reasons he had been chamberlain for more than 50 years and never lost his position.

"His lordship cannot be that bad Anne," noted George as he patted her on the shoulder. He was the only one that called Mrs. Hammond by name, because he was the only one that got away with it.

"He skulks around the castle scaring the daylights out of my maids, he is arrogant and ill-tempered and he finds it amusing to push you to your limits. And all the while he looks like a complete ruffian! Someone unfit to be count and less in the good graces of his Majesty!" Mrs. Hammond drew breath after her little outburst and proceeded to regain her composure.

"The worst thing in all is that Miss Christine will be the one to suffer. Her complexion and general health has been failing ever since she and her mother arrived from Wessport." Mrs. Hammond looked worried as she continued. "I love that girl, George, and I have watched her grow up. It would indeed be a hard blow to us all if God were to take her from us now after all she has endured this past year."

George had fallen into deep thought as Mrs. Hammond continued on lamenting about Christine and her irreversible fate.

"May God strike me down. But it would be a miracle to us all if his lordship were to fail in his task in Raven's Grove," Mrs. Hammond whispered and received a glare from the chamberlain.

"Never speak such words, Anne. Even if his lordship might be an irritating and impossible man, I have not heard even one reason for anyone to wish such a demise upon him." George paused slightly as he weighed the words Mrs. Hammond had just spoken. "Wait, Raven's Grove? That bandit-infested place?" he suddenly realized.

"Aye, he rode out with over twenty strong men this morning and has yet to return," was all Mrs. Hammond managed to say. Then suddenly, as if by some extraordinary coincidence shouts were heard from the direction of the courtyard.

"Perhaps they have returned?" mumbled George and headed in the directions of the tumult. Mrs. Hammond quickened in her pace as well and followed suit to the courtyard.

"Look!" shouted one of the stablemen. In through the gates came a handful of horses in wild gallop and were only stopped when footmen and stable-boys jumped forward to calm them.

Those who had come there first were the ones who had escaped severe injuries from battle, merely scratches they hadn't even noticed. The more fortunate ones had ridden with the fatally wounded men. Joseph was among them.

"Prepare beds for the wounded and have the kitchen staff boil water. Prepare spirits and gauzes, we are expecting the physician at any moment," said a soldier with a rather large gash on his forehead that he had yet to notice. Shortly after the first wave, came the most wounded of the lot. They could barely hang onto the horses. As the animals, frightened by the smell of blood that dripped down their flanks, were calmed down, a man fell dead from the beast that had carried him.

"Where is the physician?" shouted George in a commanding, but calm voice. No one answered him so instead of waiting for Hawthorne to return he took charge. It was like he had always done ever since the death of Charles Vega.

"Let's get these men inside and away from the elements. All those who can walk will help us to carry them inside. I believe they have prepared provisional beds in…" George paused and looked at one of the maids who had just come running out from the main doors of the castle.

"The Palas, one of the smaller halls in the east wing." She spoke timidly.

"Right. Bring them there, it is just straight ahead and then to your left until you reach the end of the corridor." Without a minute to lose the wounded men were carried swiftly toward the building. Two other soldiers who had died during the ride were left there. There was no time for the dead when the others were still breathing.

"Sir Joseph!" exclaimed Mrs. Hammond and walked alongside the wounded man that was being carried inside. Her forehead wrinkled in a worried expression. Joseph had one arrow in his shoulder and a nasty slash on the outer part of his left thigh. His skin had lost its color due to all the blood loss and he was unconscious.

"Make way, make way!" came the agitated voice of another man entering the courtyard amidst all the chaos. He was what appeared to be in his mid-fifties with white streaks running through his brown hair and trimmed goatee. The man was riding Tristan Hawthorne's gray stallion.

"Where are the rest of the wounded?" He looked around himself, jumping right into action, without a moment to lose.

"This way, and make haste Victor!" George led the physician to the Palas, taking long steps, making the younger man run every other step due to his shorter stature. As soon as he entered the Palas, he went right to work on the wounded soliciting help from the maids that were available. He had them disinfect and bound the easier wounds while he went on to treat the more severe ones.

Victor Blake of Hayes, the residing physician of the small town, worked without taking a break for the following hours. The whole household helped him as best as they could to take care of the eleven men that lay on improvised cots in the hall. Nothing had been heard yet from Tristan and it wasn't until nightfall that he and the rest of the soldiers entered the castle on foot. George was made aware of his lordship's presence and wasted no time in running to greet him. He was pleased to see that his current master upheld all the praise and rumors that had been said about him. Tristan Hawthorne was more than he expected. He seemed almost like a gladiator returning from the circle, covered in the blood of his enemies, with a few cuts here and there. George did not know if it was for the mask, but he could not detect any signs of Hawthorne being tired at all.

"My lord," George said as he neared the younger man and bowed as deep as his stiff, old limbs allowed him to. "I am George Adamson and Chamberlain of Adelton Hall, at your service." Tristan eyed the old man and only nodded slightly.

"Where have my men been taken?" asked Tristan, looking past George and into the castle. George felt a twitch in the corner of his lip, he liked how impatient his lordship was to see to the well-being of his men.

"We have taken the worst of the wounded to provisional cots in the Palas, the inferior hall. The ones that had lesser wounds were taken to the kitchens and have been sent to their barracks to rest."

"Show me to the Palas." George did as his lord bade. They all, together with Lucius and the rest of the soldiers, headed to the temporary infirmary where the physician was still tending to the wounded.

When Lucius and Tristan walked into the grand hall, they were surprised to see that Lady Amelia and Christine were helping as nurses too. They were too occupied in their tasks to notice the remaining soldiers and their leader return. Christine was giving water to a bedridden soldier, her white apron had been stained with blood, and there was even some splattered in her hair and on her cheeks.

"Mr. Blake," said George as they neared the exhausted man, "Allow me to present the master of this household." Victor Blake dried his sweaty brow with the back of his hand and looked up to meet the masked face of Tristan. He had to blink several times for he thought he was seeing a malignant apparition. But after a few moments, he regained his senses and promptly saluted the younger man.

"How many casualties since we sent them from Raven's Grove?" asked Lucius while Tristan looked around, as if searching for something. His looming figure scared away the maids as he walked down the rows of the provisional beds.

"Well, three did not make the ride and another two had lost too much blood, I could do nothing for them," said the physician sadly. Lucius' lips turned into a thin line. They had vanquished the bandits, but at a higher price than expected.

"What of Joseph?" asked Lucius.

"Who?"

"The young blonde lad with the arrow and that nasty thigh wound," added George as he saw the confused look on the physician's face.

"Ah yes. I believe he is over there," pointed Blake, the cot right where Tristan stood and where Christine currently sat, giving water to a very wounded, but a very much alive Joseph.

Christine had first heard of the wounded soldiers when Maria had been asked to come to the kitchens. They had wanted her to help the kitchen staff with the meal preparations as some had to prepare what was needed for the physician. She had followed suit, getting out from her room and down to the corridor that was next to the courtyard. There, through a window, she had seen a man fall dead from his horse and she felt nausea stir in her stomach as she held a hand over her mouth. After having regained composure she went to her mother and informed her of what she had seen. Both of them had rushed to Mrs. Hammond that stood in the courtyard and later followed her to the Palas. It was there that Christine had seen Joseph, so white and so still, and she feared that he was already dead.

Christine felt the hairs at the back of her neck raise and she noticed suddenly a large shadow looming over her shoulder. She put down the wooden cup and turned around to see who was disturbing Joseph's well-needed rest. She was ready to send whoever stood behind her away when she came face to face with Tristan. His bloodied and torn clothes made her mouth drop slightly in surprise. Their faces were so close that she could feel the warmth of his breath touch her delicate features. The hall was too dark for her to see his eyes but she could feel his gaze on her. Christine felt as if frozen solid, unable to move away from him. Her eyes wandered again to his lips, for it was the only part of his face that she could read. They were in a thin line as if angered or displeased by something. Christine did not feel comfortable at all being so close to him, and even less if he was angry. She quickly recoiled, standing up and backing away a few steps while her hand went for her apron. She grabbed the bloodied fabric in her closed fist and tried to regain her composure.

"My lord." Her heart beat madly, like that of an animal hearing the horn of a hunting party. It did not go unnoticed by Tristan, nor Joseph who was secretly watching them, that Christine was agitated and tense.

Instead of speaking to her Tristan turned to Joseph and completely ignored his fiancée. Christine might have felt insulted if it were not for the fact that she was grateful that he had diverted his attention from her. She took that chance and went to the other side of the room, to stand close to Mrs. Hammond and George.

"I see that you have been well taken care of," stated Tristan as he sat down next to Joseph.

"Yes, I..." whispered Joseph, too tired to say anything else. Alas, the young man made an effort to speak to him. Tristan put a gloved hand on Joseph's uninjured shoulder.

"Rest, you have to get better so you can come with us to Raven's Grove again." Joseph smiled at Tristan's joke, a rare thing. He let his head sink deeper into the pillows and soon sleep overtook him. Dreams washed away the pain and he held a peaceful look on his face.

 _December 1_ _st_

Word had spread throughout all of Hayes about Tristan's miraculous defeat of the bandits and their leader. It spoke little of the men that had been lost, or that more than half had been wounded. Instead, people spoke of the bravery of Tristan and even of Lucius and Joseph. When Victor Blake had returned the following day, after making sure that his patients were stable and well taken care of, he was bombarded by inquiring townspeople. Even the local gentry that lived in mansions on the outskirts of town made up illnesses to lure the doctor to them. They had him talk about his time at the castle. Soon the interest fell more on Tristan himself than his defeat over Saxton. The people of Hayes had never seen this new count of Cadherra, they had only heard rumors. Some rumors were more flattering than others. Some said that he was a great champion when he fought, or that he was a charismatic fellow that held great and fine dinners every night at his castle. Other rumors told of a very different man, a monster that hid his face from insight and that was appalling and vicious.

Soon people started speculating about the engagement between Christine and Tristan. Most lamented that a traitor's daughter would marry such an eligible man. They thought her lucky and many jealous ladies started gossiping about every aspect of her life.

After having come face to face with Tristan and seen that she could be of service to those who needed it, Christine had dared to venture out of her room. Her main excuse was that she could go and see Joseph and care for him and his wounds. She realized that he was one of her few friends left, besides George and Mrs. Hammond. She knew that her old friends would never accept her again as a traitor's daughter and she accepted that. But it hurt her a little that even the servants, like the maids of the palace, would consciously make her life harder than it had to be. Christine was bothered even more when the same people would bother Maria.

It was late afternoon, just before supper. Christine was walking to her chambers to get dressed for the meal when she found that her door was locked. She thought it strange. She never had her door locked. Christine did not like standing there in the corridor, so close to Tristan's room. Two maids were coming from the other direction.

"Excuse me, do you know who locked this door?" asked Christine kindly and smiled. The two women just looked at her and then continued walking away.

"Do you have a key?" she asked. Again, no answer was given as the maids passed her.

"Do you know where Mrs. Hammond is?" Christine figured that the old woman would take a kinder stance to her problem than just ignoring her. The maids stopped and one looked down to the ground as if in shame while the other drilled her eyes into Christine's. It was clear that at least one of the maids wanted to give her a peace of mind. But she was smart enough to hold her tongue. They walked away after Christine decided that she would get nothing from them and looked away.

It was not the first time it had happened. Ever since arriving, Christine noticed how both the new and old servants of the household, with some rare exceptions, would treat her and her mother differently. Of course it was common for the relationship between the inhabitants of an estate and its servants to have a strictly professional relationship.

Alas, Christine was used to at least having her questions answered and not be ignored. Maria wouldn't say it but she already knew that there was gossip about her and her family. Gossip could be a normal occurrence as well. Servants lived so close to their masters that they were bound to be curious or talk about what they saw. But she was indeed saddened that the only subject on their lips was her father's treason. She had overheard quite a lot of people talk about it at first before locking herself up in her room. They would talk ill about her father and judge her family based on his acts. Christine thought that her family had gone through enough. But she did not start a fight over it. She kept quiet because she knew that any action like standing up for herself or punishing them would just make it worse. So she looked away, ashamed of her weak will and let it go past her, as always.

"Unlock her door now." Christine recognized the dark, commanding voice of Tristan as he stepped closer. His clothes were so dark that they had not noticed him when he arrived. The maid who had glared at Christine turned white as a ghost and dug around in the pocket of her apron. There she had a set of keys and she promptly unlocked the door to Christine's chamber. Then she and the other maid curtsied deeply and started leaving.

"If I ever see you or any of you treat Miss Vega with such disrespect again, I shall have you flogged and relieved of your charge. Is that clear?" He seemed composed when he spoke, but it was unnerving for it seemed like the eerie calm before a storm. It was a storm that neither of the maids wanted to experience so they apologized deeply to him and then to Christine before they left, almost running.

Christine only nodded as a thank you toward Tristan, not trusting her voice enough to speak. She started moving toward her door and opened it when his gloved hand rested upon hers and stopped her from entering. Christine quickly withdrew her hand from his touch. Tristan sighed inwardly. How could they ever get to know each other if she always reacted as if he had burnt her or would damage her whenever he was in her presence?

"How long has this been going on?" he asked nonchalantly. He backed away again to give her some space while she brought her hands protectively in front of her, hugging herself.

"What do you mean?" Christine looked at the cold stone floor while the light of the setting sun started disappearing behind the tall mountains.

"You know what I mean, Miss Vega. I will not allow servants to treat anyone in such a manner here." He seemed more determined now to get the truth out of her while Christine just wanted to slip away from his prying eyes.

"You must know why they treat me so, my lord, for is it not their right to suspect me? The blood of a traitor runs through my veins. They have every right to question my motives and my character." Tristan felt that it was not just a question she asked him, but something she seemed to be asking herself.

He knew that she had locked herself up in her room ever since her arrival. He also knew that she rarely ventured out, although lately, she seemed to be progressing in that area, and he had Joseph to thank for that. But he thought that her depression stemmed from her unwillingness to wed him. He felt that he had been self-centered and not taken into account her feelings. Maybe it was wild guessing on his part. Alas, the way her lavender blue eyes got clearer as pain shone through them and the way her fists slightly clenched suggested that the acts of her father weighed heavily on her shoulders.

"The acts of those who share our blood do not define us. Our own thoughts and actions do, Miss Vega." She noticed how his voice took a softer tone and was surprised to find a small amount of friendliness in it. But that could not be, she did not want Tristan Hawthorne's pity. She looked at her door again and then back to the floor.

"I can never redeem my family, even if I marry you. The only thing I will do is taint your good name."

"Are you that anxious to break our engagement?" he whispered deeply while slowly coming closer. Christine did not notice as she was trapped in her own thoughts.

"No I…I will not go back on my word, my lord." She seemed worried as she frowned.

"Know then that there is a handful of people that do not judge you. I cannot speak for your father, but if he was anything like you, then I choose to believe that he was a good man." Christine looked up, suddenly noticing how close the man before her was. But she did not step back. Instead, her eyes widened and became clear with unshed tears. She was embarrassed for herself. Here stood a man that spoke for her father's kind nature without ever having known him. Meanwhile, _she_ had thought him guilty since the first moment.

"Please just let me get back to my chamber, my lord," she said while looking down. Her voice broke as she tried to keep her composure. Tristan clenched his jaw and walked away without another word. Christine took the opportunity to get back to her chamber and lock the door behind her. Once in her room, she sat down. He was either very noble of character or completely foolish. His words had touched her in a way she had never thought possible. It was almost like he had a blind faith in her.

Tristan Hawthorne had, for the first time and very vaguely, shown a semblance of friendliness and care toward her. She had never seen that in him before and she didn't know if it intrigued or frightened her. It was not what she had expected at all. What he had said made her think of her father again, something she struggled daily to ignore. She wanted to believe in the man that had sired her as blindly as Tristan had. She felt that she had a lot to learn from that masked man.

Meanwhile, as Tristan walked to his own chambers, he opened up all the windows in his rooms and stripped the mask, gloves, and jerkin from his body. He loosened the white shirt and sat down to have a glass of Madeira. For a slight moment back there he felt that the walls between them of pride, fright, and pretense had been slightly lowered. He got the impression that their words and actions had been true. It was only for a split second but it gave him hope that maybe one day they could enjoy each other's company without fright or burdensome facades. For even if Tristan might lust after Christine he felt it wrong to just could not just wed her and make her his. He put himself in her position to try to understand her better. He had never really known his father, but he could only imagine the hurt she must've felt getting to known that her father had been charged with treason.

 _December 3_ _rd_

It was a rare beauty, Adelton Hall. But it seemed void of any warmth that a family would usually bestow upon its home. There were only feeling of sadness, despair, and duty here. Mother and daughter hardly spoke anymore as they slowly drifted apart. Lady Amelia felt that she was not worthy of such an exemplary daughter. Many in Hayes and even in the castle voiced their opinions that Lady Amelia appeared to be selling her daughter to get back to her earlier, more luxurious life.

Although Joseph had managed to coax Christine out from her room, he had not managed to make her relationship with Tristan any better. But then again, Tristan did not make many efforts to approach her. At least, that was how it looked to everyone else.

Christine had just left after visiting Joseph and tending to his wounds. She came frequently and helped the soldiers that had a few nights left sleeping in the hall until they were free to leave. Sometimes, both would sit in silence while she took care of him. Other times, they would talk without really saying anything. Joseph remarked that her countenance was still frail and she still held an air of sadness about her.

He had overheard some gossiping maids speaking quite bad about their mistress. He would have interrupted but his interest got the better of him. He knew it was weak of him to listen to the simple words of a ditsy servant girl. But he felt that some of what was said held a grain of truth. But when their gossiping started touching unsavory territory Joseph interrupted and scolded them. He did not wish for anyone to paint his friend in a bad light. Rumors were spreading throughout the castle that Christine would not proceed with the marriage. Joseph was afraid that it might happen if Tristan did not do anything about it soon. He knew very well that Tristan was not known for courting a woman or for wooing the fairer sex. But even he had to realize that if he wanted to have a chance to live a happy life with Christine, he had to start trying. Joseph had pushed aside the fears and insecurities he felt toward the man he had grown to respect greatly. He had voiced his concerns earlier that day without really taking his time to further analyze the picture. He spoke directly, from his heart.

"I know my opinion is unwanted," he had started when Tristan had come to visit him out of friendly concern. Joseph had been surprised that the general showed such concern for him. But it was gratefully accepted, nonetheless.

"Then do not give it." Tristan's mouth turned into a thin line. Joseph could see, even from his where he lay, that the masked man tensed greatly at the personal critique that was about to occur. But it did not stop Joseph, for he had nothing to lose.

"I will when it affects someone I care about," he whispered. Tristan sighed and started to leave when Joseph asked him to stay.

"Please, Tristan." It was the first time Joseph had used his name so informally. It surprised Tristan enough to make him stay a few minutes more. For now, he was interested in what his friend had to say.

"Whom do you care about then?" he inquired while letting his eyes drill holes into Joseph's.

"You know who. Christine has grown to be a friend of mine and you must have noticed that she is not well," Joseph mumbled while looking away. He did not want to meet those two empty black holes.

"If she is such a close friend, then maybe you should talk to her. Not with me, who knows nothing."

"She will not open up to anyone," Joseph muttered. Tristan felt a smile tug at the corner of his lips. Christine had opened up to him, even if it had just been for a minute.

"Yes, she is stubborn that way," he said while looking at something in the distance. "She is stronger than you think, Joseph. She bears all her burdens and sorrows without complaint. Yet, she has to suffer the disdain of others who have not taken into account her situation." Tristan became pensive. Joseph, on the other hand, had no idea that the man before him had perceived so much about his fiancée. He wondered if there was something that he was missing. Maybe there was something between the two that he could not see yet. If that was the case then he felt foolish for having thought otherwise in the first place.

"I just thought that perhaps, if the two of you grew closer it would be easier for her," he said and sighed. Not knowing what to think anymore. He had never been good at reading other people or situations. So he did not know if he had overstepped his boundaries here. He felt stupid and naïve.

"That is not up to me to decide," said Tristan, who was surprised that it had been Joseph of all people who had risen to push him toward Christine even more. He had suspected that the two of them had developed a sort of young romance. He did not feel obligated to stop it if that was what would make Christine happy then he would not get in the way. Suddenly, he stopped his train of thought. Since when did he know so much about Christine? Since when did he care about her happiness? These were thoughts that he had not known of until now, and it was because Joseph had forced him to talk about this subject. He had no wish to get attached to the girl. Romance only lead to heartbreak and he knew that she could never like him, even less love him.

"But maybe you could try to seem friendlier when you are with her. You can be quite intimidating at times, you know." Tristan was brought back to the Palas by Joseph's words. They weighed heavy on him because he knew he was right. But how does one change one's nature? That was who he was and that was how he was most comfortable. He had gotten so used to inspire fear in others that it was now second nature to him. Tristan did not more and left. But Joseph did feel as if he had accomplished something in those few minutes that they had talked. Perhaps, thanks to him, he had set something in motion. He could only hope.

 _December 4_ _th_

It was a wonderful morning in the valley. The sky was rid of any clouds, the air was cold and crisp. There had been a heavy snowfall during the night, painting the landscape white once again. The horn of a hunting group could be heard on the outskirts of Raven's Grove. A big group of riders made its way into the woods, following the deer that they had been trying to catch the entire morning. Tristan and Lucius rode on ahead, following the sounds of the dogs as they tried to catch the scent of the frightened animal.

The horses carried their riders deeper into the forest and suddenly Tristan caught something in the corner of his eye. A hooded figure appeared to be standing deep in the forest, amongst the tall trees. He stopped, thinking that it was the bandits, but the figure was gone when he looked back. He heard the loud barks of the dogs as they must've caught on to the scent again. He saw Lucius up ahead with his newly acquired pistol, ready to shoot the animal. The deer was cornered and made desperate noises, knowing that its life was about to end. It pressed against a tree, trying to get away from the hunters. The dogs were biting ferociously away at its thin legs, wounding it to the point that it had difficulty standing. Tristan heard the loud boom of the pistol and saw the animal fall. It was dead before it hit the ground. Its blood, its life-source, escaped the wound and seeped into the snow under it.

The rest of the group closed in and some of the servants started loading up the deer behind a horse while another took care of the dogs. Tristan congratulated Lucius with a simple nod. He would have liked to have killed that deer himself. He felt as if Lucius had robbed him of that triumph. But seeing the lifeless eyes of the dead animal staring deep into his being made him think twice. It brought back memories of war, for some strange reason.

Even though he never wanted to think about it, death affected him to a disturbing level. His world was much like that deer's. It was better to be the hunter than being the hunted. But that meant that he had to carry a heavy burden. In war, he had killed many men, and outside it a few as well. That was how it worked. He had forgotten how many men had fallen due to his blade or gun. But sometimes, when the stress overburdened him, he would wake up in a cold sweat, thinking about those fallen in battle.

Tristan felt that the walls he had built around him, the shell in which he lived, protected him not just from the threats of those around him. But it protected his mind as well. He had managed to live with himself until now and that was how he wanted it to continue. Therefore, the talk he had had with Joseph the day before had been disturbing to him. The more he had thought about it, the more he realized that Christine Vega was not just longer some girl that he lusted over. She was no longer a trophy he could keep by his side. He had never noticed it himself, but he cared for her well-being, he cared for _her_.

Did that mean that he liked her? No, it surely couldn't. He remembered back to the days when he and Sofia lived in Constantinople. He had gotten to know a woman older and wiser than he. She had shown him the most intimate and delightful ways of the human body. In her boudoir, they had explored each other's bodies and she had taught him the meaning of pleasure. He had _liked her_. But he did not feel the same way for Christine. So what was it then? Maybe just an instinct to protect her and care for her. All he knew was that he had to guard himself whenever he was around her because she could become his weakness.

"Are we headed to the castle then?" Lucius' baritone voice interrupted Tristan's train of thought and snapped him back into reality.

"You go, I will take Cid for some exercise," Tristan said while looking down at his gray stallion. He needed some time in the forest to sort out his thoughts. The wilderness felt better than being in the castle right now.

"What about the bandits?" asked Lucius.

"If they know what's best for them, they will not attack me." There was a slight tone of arrogance in Tristan's deep voice as he felt an eyebrow raise. Lucius did not question him further and started following the servants.

"Do not blame me if you die!" He shouted when he was a bit further away. Tristan chuckled and set out further into the woods.

There was something in Raven's Grove that drove him to it. Maybe the air of mystery it held. Or maybe it was the peacefulness that he could only find when he was amongst the tall trees that resembled wooden pillars, holding up the impressive forest roof.

He let Cid grace the forest for a while until he decided on riding back. As the horse marched through the deep snow, Tristan felt watched. A pair of eyes were digging into the back of his neck and he swiftly turned around in the saddle. There was nothing there, only the eerie quietness of the forest. When he turned around again, there was someone in front of him. His reflexes processed the situation faster than his brain. Feeling the impending threat, his muscles went for his pistol, which was loaded, and his dagger which he had hung on the left side of his hip. He cocked the flintlock and was ready to defend himself when his brain finally functioned. It was Saxton, standing nonchalantly before him.

"A bit jumpy are we?" asked the outlaw as he pulled the dark cloak closer around him, to protect him from the cold morning air. Tristan's eyes immediately scanned for more men but he saw none. They had to either be very well hidden or not present at all.

"Have you heard the rumor that there is a witch residing deep within this forest?" Saxton said while casually strolling over to a large stone. He proceeded to dust off the powdery snow and sit on it.

"My men will avenge my death, none of you will escape alive," Tristan gritted through his teeth, still aiming the gun at Saxton. Saxton raised his hands in defeat with a serious expression on his face.

"I am here alone, so I am in fact more vulnerable right now that you are, Hawthorne." Truth rang in those words. Alas, it did not make the suspicious man lower his gun or sheath his dagger.

"I see I will have to earn your trust," stated Saxton.

"So you have come here seeking me out?"

"I was on my way to Adelton but it seems luck smiled upon me when I discovered your hunting party. I was even luckier that you decided to stay behind. Maybe it was fate that brought us together, my friend," said Saxton, smiling.

"I am not your friend." Tristan seemed almost disgusted at the idea and looked down at the man before him. He could kill him now, honor his dead wife and son and the world would be rid of one more evil. But an unknown force within him stopped him from pulling the trigger.

"I know, but I sought you out to warn you, nonetheless." When Tristan didn't answer him Saxton continued. "You are a part of the court now. No doubt there was some strong objection to you being given this county." Tristan slowly sheathed his dagger, but still kept the gun aimed strictly

Tristan slowly sheathed his dagger, but still kept the gun aimed strictly at Saxton's chest. Tristan's action showed that his words interested him enough to make him listen further. Saxton on the other hand, felt a breath of relief escape his lips. He would not lie to himself and say that he did not find the man before him imposing. He was seated on his horse looking like death itself. He looked like a warrior of old, clothed in dark garb, with his gray stallion impatient, stomping its feet, urging his master to go forward.

"Why are you warning me? And why should I trust you, a murderer, and an outlaw?" Saxton sighed at Tristan's words. How could he make the man before him take into account what he was about to say?

"I have my reasons, and I think that someday they will make sense to you." He made himself more comfortable on the hard surface on which he was sitting on.

"You form a part of the nobility now and heed my warning, Hawthorne. There is much intrigue and conspiracy in this country. The war has been won, yes, but now a much harder war will be waged where wit and words will be your weapons. You are lucky to have been allowed to come to Cadherra so soon after receiving your title, it has bought you some time. But you shall see. Soon they will demand that you go back to that forsaken town, to Wessport." Saxton held a look of disdain and hatred at some old memory that seemed to be emerging from within the depths of his mind.

"You can trust no one there, not even the King."

"You speak treason," stated Tristan, but he did not say more. He knew well himself that the King was weak, listening more to his advisors than to reason itself.

"I can afford to say these things for I have nothing to lose," lamented Saxton. He had no one he loved that could be taken away from him, and his life was worth little to him.

"Power-struggles always form part of kingdoms, in that Angloa is no different. King Philip and King Magnus were before my time, unfortunately. Philip was just and he was great man that knew how to rule this land by his own accord while still listening to his people. He was different from his brother, Magnus. And his nephew does not do him justice," sneered Saxton and Tristan noticed some personal resentment in his words.

"Now that Angloa recovers from war there will be a power struggle, and I think you have already started to notice it. Whoever wants to seize power sees you as a threat. Tell me, have they perhaps sent someone to watch over you?" Tristan felt his eyes widen, thankful that the mask hid the rest of his shocked expression. Alan Moore. He had been sent by someone to watch him and report everything he did.

Alan Moore. He had been sent by someone to watch him and report everything he did.

"You silence tells me you have." Tristan lowered his pistol. Saxton had his full and complete attention now.

"You see, that is what they did with me as well, that is how it all started. I warn you so that you do not make the same mistakes I did. When you go to Wessport you must guard your tongue at all times, trust no one and listen to no one. If they really see you as a threat, they will try to do everything in their power to get rid of you." Saxton's face was solemn and Tristan had an unsettling feeling in the depths of his stomach. Why was it that he believed these words? He didn't want them to make sense, but everything Saxton had said thus far made sense to him.

"Who are _they_?"

"I never got that far, I was sent to the island of Cantabria before I got any vital information." Saxton neared the masked man and looked up, he needed the man before him to understand the importance and power of what he was about to say. He didn't know why Hawthorne of all people would be the one to receive this information, yet here he was, telling him.

"It is vital that you understand what I am about to tell you. You are a man of many talents and I have hope that you will survive in Wessport. They will send for you and when they do, you must try to uncover these people. I do not know exactly what they want, who they are or how many they are. I have very limited information, but I do know three things. The only man you can trust in Wessport, and probably in all of Angloa, is Lord Thomas Athar, the King's main advisor. Secondly, there is a secret guarded by the court that you must find out, something big enough to rock the foundations of this country. It is vital for you to unmask these conspirators." Tristan felt all his thoughts tangling in his mind. In under an hour, he found himself talking to an outlaw who was uttering treasonous things. And, meanwhile, he was implying that he now had to become a spy and try to take out an unknown organization of supposed conspirators. His peaceful ride with Cid had completely backfired on him.

"Lastly, I do not know how much you care for that fiancée of yours. But if you do, you best leave her out of all this, cancel the engagement if you have to. Something is starting, Hawthorne. People will get hurt and some may even die." It was evident to him that Saxton took his own words very seriously.

"Why are you telling me all this?"

"It was not by my own accord. There is someone who wishes to remain anonymous that is looking out for you," Saxton said while looking enigmatic.

Both of them stood there a long while until Tristan gathered the reins of Cid and his thoughts as well. He frowned down on the outlaw and spoke in a degrading tone.

"Why should I trust a man that is known for killing his own family? Who robs and who speaks treason? You may consider yourself lucky that I have decided to spare you a second time. Next time I see you I will not be so benevolent." And with those words he sent Cid into a wild gallop, pushing Saxton out of the way. He wanted to get away from there, feeling how the words of the outlaw pursued him furiously.

"Seek up Lord Athar and you will see!" sounded the strong yell of the redhead. The words died out as Tristan got further and further away from him until he was finally out of the forest. But he had not managed to outrun the worry that had now festered within him.


	6. Chapter 6

**A TALE OF ANGLOA**

 _Chapter 6_

* * *

 _December 13th_

As they dwelled deeper into December—and winter—they closed in on the festivities of Yule. Maria, together with the other maids, had been called by Mrs. Hammond to help with the ever-growing work that never seemed to stop. The young girl did not really have a place amongst the other maids. Although some were kind toward her, others treated her with such lack of civility that she wondered if they held some personal grudge against her. For her it was always difficult knowing who to trust, and who could turn their back on her the next second.

They were a big group seated in the kitchen, the warmest place in the castle, except for the lord and ladies' rooms. The kitchens were really just a big, spacious room, rectangular in shape and low in roof, to keep as much heat in as possible. Although the heat was appreciated in the cold of winter, it was greatly undesired in summer.

The walls in tiled brick only had two small windows that barely let in any light. So the servants had to rely on the light of the three wide, fireplaces and hundreds of candles, placed about the room. The room divided into sections. One section held a countertop bench for preparing the food before it had to go into the cauldron or roast in the fire. Another section was a long table, going from one end of the room to the other. There the kitchen maids would knead the bread and pastries, or sit down to have a quick bite of leftovers. In some cases, just like this chilly December morning, many maids gathered to sit and work together by the warmth that the fires for the kitchen provided. The air was pleasant as the women chatted away.

Hanging from the beams of the ceiling in thin string where various herbs, plucked during the summer and autumn, left to dry and be used sparingly in winter. In the coldest corner of the kitchen stood a dozen barrels filled with various types of salted meats, also in preparation for the winter. Next to them lay a large pile of cut wood that male servants would refill every morning as the fires of the castle were lit.

Maria sat by the table, occupied with mending linen while other servants polished the silverware for the coming festivities that would soon be held for Christmas. She pricked her finger for the third time until another maid took pity on her and asked if she wanted to switch tasks.

"Aye, for if I continue, this piece of cloth will soon go from white to red," she exclaimed as she sucked up the blood that emerged from her fingertip, trying to block out the pain as she commenced polishing sharp knives.

"Do not worry, it is the least I can do," said the dark-haired girl and sighed with a displeased expression on her face. Suddenly Maria wondered if she had done something wrong.

"Have I offended you in any way?" she asked, going straight to the point. Maria was blunt, she knew that. Even as a maid, she made her opinion heard, ignoring if they could get her in trouble or not, something they had in the past. But she had never liked the idea of tip-toeing around people. Being blunt might seem less refined in the eyes of the gentry, but she was used to it after all.

Another one of the dozen maids in the kitchen just laughed, brushing Maria's question off as something quite hilarious.

"Well at least that would bring some excitement here: a confrontation between maids. No, Lauren is bored, I believe. As are the rest of us," she said while polishing a cup furiously, trying to remove the last speck of dirt that kept it from looking perfect and shiny. Maria felt her eyebrows rise as she looked back at Lauren.

"You are bored? Here?" She did not believe what she heard. The girl just shrugged and kept mending.

"But how can you be bored here? There is so much to see, there are so many things happening. How about the bandits in Raven's Grove? Or what about his lordship?" she asked again, looking around.

Another maid, cutting vegetables on the countertop looked up suddenly, mischief and curiosity shining in her otherwise dull, brown, eyes.

"I heard from Johanna the other day a most peculiar tale," she smirked, getting the attention from the other women in the room. Even the cook, a robust woman that probably tasted half of the food before she served it, looked curious. The girl speaking was Ruth, one of the kitchen maids with a talent for telling tales. Whenever she spoke, people lent an ear, knowing that they were in for some juicy gossip or an amazing story. Ruth continued her poetic pause until it irritated some of the girls.

"Well, go on then! What did Johanna say?" said Lauren impatiently. It was clear that she was dying to get in on the gossip. Maria only sighed. Gossiping was something the maids did often, but she tried to stay out of it, mostly because they would speak about her mistress. She could never hold her tongue, she always spoke up to defend her. It would usually get her into a lot of trouble.

Ruth looked around the open space of the kitchen. The cook sat down by the warm fireplace where broth furiously boiled away. A dozen maids sat by the long table. The kitchen maids continued what they were doing but it was evident that they were listening in as well.

"Johanna is one of the maids that has to serve his lordship. She is the one that changes his sheets and gets to walk freely in his rooms." A sinister smirk spread across Ruth's dull, chubby features. Her mouse colored hair was greasy from lack of washing and her hands were full of scars she had received using the cutting knife on the vegetables.

" _She_ is the chambermaid of Count Hawthorne?" exclaimed one of the older maids. Murmur arose amongst the women. They themselves had a lot of questions for their colleague after finding out her secret. To be the chambermaid of someone like Hawthorne was something no one wished. Before his arrival, they had all refused as Mrs. Hammond had rounded them up to select a willing maid. The general conception after that had been that it was Mrs. Hammond herself who took care of Tristan Hawthorne's chambers.

"Yes, but Mrs. Hammond appears to be the one that accompanies her. Not even she will allow a maid to venture into his lordships quarters by herself," continued Ruth. "It appears that last week, Mrs. Hammond was otherwise occupied and Johanna had to go in herself. She found the main bedroom to be empty and, so, decided that before she started her work, she would go explore." Now Maria listened as well. How could a mere maid dare to go through his lordships belongings? She was infuriated, but she held her tongue, even though she was determined to inform this to Mrs. Hammond when she found the chance.

"She had never gone beyond his lordships bedchamber. It seems it is something he personally requested. He keeps his other rooms clean himself."

"Well, that is very suspicious," a maid added in, matter-of-factly. Others nodded in agreement.

"It seems like Johanna had been thinking the same for she dared to venture beyond his bedchamber. And what she found was beyond her wildest expectations!" Ruth placed both hands firmly on the cutting board and leaned forward. The other maids leaned forward eagerly, waiting for what she would say next. Maria noticed the tension and excitement build up slowly and wanted Ruth to say what Johanna had found.

"Well?" said another impatient maid as she urged her to continue.

"Beyond his bedchambers and personal study there is a small, circular, room that the old master never used. But his current lordship has put it to good use." Another poetic pause followed, in order to fuel the dramatic tension in the room.

"In it is a large mirror. And in the middle of the room is a glass box holding a beautiful red rose." The others seemed let down.

"A rose, that's it? You got our hopes up for a mirror and a rose?" exclaimed the cook from the back of the room.

"I wasn't finished, Mrs. Adams!" yelled Ruth, trying to regain the power she had held through her storytelling just a few minutes earlier. The sour faces of the crowd did not let up, for they had felt as tricked as the cook.

"Have none of you come to realize how strange it was for Johanna to find a fresh rose, cut off from its root, in winter?" Ruth thought herself speaking to a flock of fools and took great pleasure in seeing their eyes light up as they realized what she was saying.

"But how does he keep a freshly cut rose, in the middle of winter?" asked a blonde girl. Others joined in and started demanding answers, soon people started speculating and Maria figured that even more rumors about his lordship were being created. She sighed and stopped listening to their tedious argument about the rose.

As her rough hands kept polishing the many metal cups and cutlery that were still by her side on the table, she noticed how the conversation slowly started turning into another direction. To Maria's dismay, the change of subject did not please her.

"I wonder if Miss. Vega has seen that rose."

"Of course not, she never ventures near his quarters," the chambermaids argued amongst each other.

"Nor does she allow but one person to enter and keep her company these days," grinned another one. She was mending linen as well. Her expressive, delicate eyebrows rose high as her mouth grew into a mysterious grin. She looked over at Maria as she kept mending the piece of cloth.

"Is it not true, Maria, that Miss. Vega has visited Mr. Winston rather often lately?" she asked casually. All eyes turned to the young woman who only stared at the shiny cup in her hand, polishing it to the point where she could see her own, worried, and tired reflection stare back. When she did not answer another maid snickered.

"What else is to be expected from a traitor's daughter? She is yet to be married and already she is cuckolding her fiancée with another!" the maid sounded disgusted, and others agreed wholeheartedly with her as they maliciously judged Christine amongst themselves. Maria felt her patience shatter with the simpleminded group of women before her.

"Miss Christine would never do such a thing. And you are foolish for thinking so lowly of her, the lot of you!" she spat. She threw the cup away and rose from the table. "Excuse me," she growled while stepping out. She would find work elsewhere in the castle, where she did not have to deal with any maid or servant again.

* * *

"Not so rough Christine!"

"If you kept still and did as I told you I wouldn't have to be as rough!"

"It hurts."

"Of course it would hurt, look at this! You should have come to me sooner!" exclaimed Christine in quite a distressed voice. Joseph pouted slightly and shied away, guarding his wound. He had been bed-bound so long that when he finally was allowed to go to his own quarters, away from the Palas, he avoided it like the plague. It meant that his bandages didn't get changed as regularly. Christine—worried about her new friend—had sought him out in his chambers to tend to his wounds herself.

"I appreciate your concern for me." Joseph was worried as he continued because he knew that they were spending too much time together recently. It did not make Christine look better in the eyes of the servants and inhabitants of the castle. He was very well aware of the constant gossip and was afraid not only for her reputation, but also for what impact their growing friendship might have on her relationship with Tristan.

"I know you do," she smiled while cleaning the arrow wound. It was healing nicely. She was not a complete fool. In the corner sat Maria, cutting new bandages that she handed to Christine. She had sought out her mistress later that morning, after having spent time in the kitchens.

The girl started bandaging the wounds and was grateful that there was no hint of infection. Joseph winced as he sat up, supported by the pillows. He took the rest of the bandages away from Christine and took her hands in his. Maria blushed at the forwardness of Joseph and looked away. Christine only stared surprised into Joseph's eyes.

"We have not been friends for long and already I feel as if I have known you for years. But you should be cautious when you come like this to see me." Her soft expression turned into a slight frown as her delicate golden eyebrows knitted together and her lavender blue eyes sank to look at her mint green skirt. She dragged her hands out from his.

"Maria, will you leave us for a moment?" she said while still looking at her skirt. Joseph hoped that he had not angered or hurt her for being so blunt. But he feared that if Tristan misinterpreted their friendship he would get the short end of the stick. But he also did not wish anyone to think badly of Christine.

Maria did not have to be told twice and was out of the room in the blink of an eye.

"What do you imagine this is, Joseph?" She turned her back on him.

"Do you think I have some romantic attachment to you only because I want to spend time with you?" Her tone grew more upset by the minute. What had he gotten himself into now? First the confrontation with the General, and now with his fiancée?

"Please, listen to me-" He had to find the words. He sat straighter on the bed and pulled the covers up further to guard himself from the chill which was creeping into the room. Christine turned around with hurt and scorn in her eyes. But she did not speak, thus allowing for Joseph to explain himself.

"I appreciate the friendship we have. But I don't want it to progress further. The problem is the situation we find ourselves in." He did not know what to say next because he did not believe what he was saying now. Was he abandoning her?

"What situation, Joseph?" she asked as anger and confusion replaced hurt. She should have never had any hopes for their friendship. Joseph would leave her behind—just like the rest— more concerned for his own reputation than their relationship.

"I cannot ignore the malice I hear in the maid's voices as they speak ill of you. And it is even openly now, they do not fear repercussion," Joseph began, suddenly cut off by a very angry Christine. She rose from the bed, staring at him with disgust.

"No, of course. For God help if anything bad would be said about you. Being with me would only taint your good name further, isn't that what scares you the most?" she lashed out at him, hurt and almost feeling mocked. She started walking to the door, her jaw tense, her nostrils flared from anger and her eyes sending a murderous gaze his way.

"I have not been acquainted with you long, Joseph. Yet you of all people here managed to cheer me up, and now that I climbed out of my hole you are determined to push me back in." As she reached for the handle Joseph cried out for her to stop.

"There is more to this than just personal feelings, Christine. Listen to me!" he tried to reach out to her, but his wounds made him wince. He dropped back into the bed, tired and exhausted from where the conversation was going. This had never been his intent. He had only tried to warn her, not make her this upset. But the more he listened to his own words, the more he understood Christine's reaction.

"I am the one who is weaker here, and that is why I decided to warn you. I care for you and do not wish to see anyone speak badly about you Christine."

"If you care for me, then you should not have insulted _my_ pride and _my_ intelligence. I will not fall into self-pity and despair any longer. I am done with it, I am done being taken for a fool!" Christine started speaking more to herself than to Joseph, without realizing it. She turned the doorknob and started leaving the room.

"Wait, I didn't mean for us to stop being friends, I just think we should stop seeing each other for now," he called out, trying to make her stay.

"And start seeing each other when it's convenient for you again, you mean?" Her voice shook slightly. While Joseph understood Christine's reason for acting out, she could, to some degree, understand his reason for wanting to keep a low profile. But even if common etiquette suggested that it was the right thing to do, she still saw it as a blow to her. She felt used and abandoned. She closed the door and saw Maria standing right next to it, with her hands folded and her head bent. She held an expressionless face.

As Christine decided that Maria could take care of the rest, Joseph cursed at himself. The one friend she had managed to make was now telling her that because of gossiping servants they had to be more aware of how much time they were spending together. But he understood, deep down—to some degree—that her words held truth. He feared his name being tainted. That hurt him more than the wounds he had sustained in battle.

 _December 14th_

The inhabitants of Adelton Hall huddled together as the cold air seeped in through the many cracks of the vast building. During the day there had been an impressive drop in temperature. The clouds that had been high over the mountaintops descended and filled the valley with an eerie fog.

Mrs. Hammond was occupied ordering footmen around the fortress to light up all the chimneys. She pulled her cape closer around her and shivered. At this rate all of them would catch a cold. They barely noticed the sun setting as it was so white outside. The maids kept on talking about that it had all to do with his lordship's presence. Rumors about his mask had always been present. But due to the eerie fog that descended so unpredictably that day, the people were going on about Tristan Hawthorne hiding a curse. Johanna, who was always sent to clean his room and make his bed every morning finally gave in and spoke of the amazing rose that would not wilt. It was encased in glass and however she looked at it, it was the most beautiful and perfect rose she had ever seen.

Maria overheard the rumors once more. She did not know what to believe. Whenever she spoke about his lordship with Christine, the young girl would turn sour and shy away from the subject. But her interest always peaked when she heard the rumors about the rose. She soon found herself in her lady's presence, brushing her hair out for the evening as the thick fog still clung to the window and pressed against the old building.

"I've been hearing the maids talking about something interesting these past few days," Maria said as she passed the brush trough the silken hair. Christine's mind was, however, far away, on Joseph. She could not stop pondering about how whatever happiness smiled upon her it was then mercilessly taken away. She started realizing that maybe her life was doomed to solitude. She was destined to be the bride to a man she would never love. She felt trapped and claustrophobic knowing that there was nothing she could do. But still she kept her mask on because she did not want to worry Maria or her mother.

"The castle maids usually tend to gossip, Maria, you should know that." Her mind wandered again and looked out the window only to be met by darkness. What if she escaped and made her way to Raven's Grove? If Hawthorne had defeated the thieves, then surely it had to be safe going there by now. But she would not leave her family alone. Christine knew that if she escaped, then Hawthorne would most likely send her mother away.

"Yes but this is unlike anything I have ever come across." Maria seemed almost giddy as she continued. She knew about Joseph and wanted to take her mistress' mind somewhere else. "It gives me goosebumps just thinking about it, miss!" She brushed more vigorously now and Christine let herself be sucked into the story that Maria was about to tell.

"It seems that the lord of the castle is hiding more than his face behind that mask. One of the maids that makes his bedding and tidies his room each morning speaks of this beautiful rose that he keeps in his room. It is encased in a class box and even though it bears no root nor receives any water it never dies. She says it is the most beautiful and perfect rose she has ever seen in her life."

"That is only a made up story by a maid that clearly has nothing better to do than gossip, Maria. How could such a thing exist?" muttered Christine while fiddling with her skirts. However, the thought of finding that rose did interest her. Her curiosity had been lit and now she wondered how it was that her fiancé had managed to come by a mysterious magical rose that did not die in winter.

"I understand you, my lady, but there is more. Tales of a witch living deep within Raven's Grove have been circling not just within the castle, but in Hayes as well. The maids are speculating that she has some ties with his lordship. Perhaps she put a curse on him?" Maria speculated. Christine rose furiously from her seat and turned to face the young servant woman.

"Never speak such words, do you wish for his lordship to burn at the stake? And if that were to come, what would you think would happen to us?" Even thinking about heresy, the dark arts or of something of the sorts was dangerous. Christine had heard many tales about frantic witch burnings throughout Europe and she knew that they were starting to become all the more popular in Angloa as well. These were frantic times and people hung on to every word the church uttered.

Maria looked hurt but said nothing. She curtsied and silently withdrew from her lady's chamber and made haste to her own sleeping quarters as the cold of the night seeped into her bones.

 _December 15th_

The click of heels against cold marble echoed ominously throughout Adelton. Someone hurried along the dark corridors and empty hallways as the sun rose in the sky. Lady Amelia had had enough. She was determined. She had a mission. Amelia could not find comfort in her sleep ever since they had arrived back at Cadherra. Her bed was too soft, it was too comfortable, too warm, too good for someone like her. When the older woman managed to shut her eyes, horrid nightmares seeped in through the cracks of her mind, mixing in with her reality. She was haunted by her own actions, by her own cowardice. She blamed herself for her daughter's unhappiness. She—once considered herself a loving and caring mother—had watched her daughter wither away, slowly, ever since they had returned to Adelton. After her husband's death the castle had lost its charm to both women. It loomed over their minds like a curse, pushing their sanity to its limits. Amelia tried to find solace in God, going to the chapel in the castle almost twice a day, confessing all her sins in a futile attempt to clear her conscience. She knew that her daughter had taken to her books and to the young Mr. Winston.

She, a once grand lady of Angloa, was now but a shadow of what she used to be, and so was Christine. Both of them had endured endless pain and humiliation in Cadherra and Wessport ever since her husband's death. But during that year, her daughter had been the strong one, keeping her mother's spirits up, never giving up. Her daughter had been, for once in her life, her shining beacon of light when all else seemed dark. But moving back to Adelton changed Christine so much that Amelia barely recognized her anymore. She always thought that her daughter's depression stemmed from her engagement to Tristan Hawthorne. An engagement she had been to foolish not to intervene in. But she had soon found out, by way of Maria, that there was much more to her daughter's pain.

As she neared Christine's room, the wrinkles in her forehead deepened. She only hoped her daughter would listen to her. She had to put an end to this. Both of them had to heal or be destroyed by their tortured minds. Her auburn colored skirts swished elegantly around her feet as she urged her step. The blonde was almost like an older version of her daughter. Alas, Lady Amelia was slowly entering her autumn years, rather gracefully. Delicate wrinkles were prominent on her forehead, they had started appearing ever since the war started, when she did nothing but worry. Yet, small wrinkles around her eyes suggested that there had once been a time when she only smiled. A time when worry did not even touch her mind.

As she reached her daughter's room, she knocked without hesitation. Maria opened the door, the hinges creaking in objection.

"My lady?" uttered Maria in surprise. It was not a secret that lately, the relationship between daughter and mother had been strained ever since Christine agreed to marry Hawthorne.

"Is my daughter available for a word?" she asked, going straight to the point. She was saddened that their relationship had come to this—that she had to beg an audience with her daughter. She saw Christine sitting, fully clothed, on the other side of the room, next to the fireplace, reading. She wore a dark red dress with a faint gold damask pattern. The sleeves were separated in the shoulder and elbow, where the white chemise she wore under peeked through. It allowed her arms to move more freely.

Maria looked hesitantly back and then again at Lady Amelia.

"My lady, I don't think-"

"Let her in, Maria," came Christine's soft voice as she closed the tome in her hand. Amelia noticed that it was her daughter's diary. She was let into the warm room and she went to sit with her by the fire.

"Are you not a bit too warmly dressed for strolling around the castle?" remarked Christine as she eyed her mother's choice of clothes. She wore an overcoat in auburn. It was lined in black, soft marabou and had a deep hood to protect from the invading winds and snow. Under it, it appeared that the Lady was wearing many unnecessary layers for walking around the castle.

"I came here to see to your well-being," Amelia began. She feared a backlash at any moment. She expected her daughter to start blaming her for not having intervened in her engagement to Hawthorne. But Christine never did.

"I appreciate it." Her eyes betrayed her smile. It was clear that the young blonde held something back. But Christine did not wish to be harsh on her mother. She already knew that Amelia blamed herself for many things that were happening in their lives.

"I came to ask if you would like to take a walk with me on the grounds."

Christine stared out, it was a clear day, with not a cloud in the sky. But the snow appeared as deep as ever.

"In this cold weather?" Christine suddenly understood her mother's choice of clothes.

"I would like to get you outside, so you might get some fresh air. You never see Mr. Winston anymore." Amelia took her daughter's hand in her cold ones. "I just want you to step outside for a moment. I have something to show you." Christine felt her throat go dry at the mention of Joseph's name. But her curiosity got the better of her. She nodded slowly, asking Maria to bring her a thicker coat and some sturdier boots as well.

Soon mother and daughter were making their way to the foot of the palace. On the outside, everything seemed normal with them. As they walked past some servants, they wondered if, finally, Christine and Lady Amelia had reconciled, never really knowing what they had been fighting about in the first place. They started descending into the snowy landscape. They did not say much, mostly they remarked on how cold it was, or how difficult it was getting through certain areas. Yet, Lady Amelia had had a path made earlier that day, in anticipation that her daughter would come. Soon they had left the main grounds of the castle and reached the tree line that grew by the Durun Mountains. It descended and hugged the foot of the cliff that Adelton Hall was perched upon. The landscape instilled a certain awe in its admirers as they pulsed through the snow.

As they neared their destination, Amelia saw it fit to prepare her daughter for what was about to come.

"Today is a special day…" she trailed off. Looking to the distance. The path that had been made ended on a small hill. Christine remained silent as her eyes were glued to something perched on top of that hill. As they neared, she saw what it was and understood why her mother had taken her there. The young woman stopped and tried to turn back, her eyes sending daggers toward her mother at the betrayal she felt.

"Why did you take me here?" she cried as she tried to get past her mother, who would not let her.

"Because you need to say your goodbyes, Christine." Amelia tried to hold back her own emotions.

They reached the top of the hill where most of the snow had been removed, revealing a gravestone. It was Charles Vega's final resting place.

"It is exactly one year today since it happened," continued Amelia as Christine looked away, not even acknowledging her father's tomb.

"I had them put him here for he is not allowed in the family crypt or on holy ground. Did you know that?"

"He was a traitor," Christine said through her teeth, trying to control her emotions as well, trying to keep the unfeeling mask on.

"He was your father!" exclaimed Amelia. "To me, it doesn't matter what he was beyond that and it shouldn't to you either. You need to accept him again. You need to find closure, Christine. It has been a year. You cannot be angry with him forever." Amelia took her daughter's hands in hers.

Christine clenched her fists but she said nothing because she had no words to say. How could she forgive him? What was she even blaming him for? Why was she feeling this way now? When they had been in Wessport she had been fine. But as soon as she entered Adelton it was as if his spirit loomed over her. Slowly her mask withered away like the leaves in autumn, shriveling up as summer died with them. Her emotions broke loose and finally she understood why now. She let her heart ache and her eyes water. It hurt her more than she could have imagine, but it felt good, as if the blocked stream of emotions within her flowed again.

"He… he just left us," she said after a moment's silence. Her voice was fighting hard not to break, she did not want to crumble under her mother's gaze for she still wanted to keep her dignity.

"He never even explained anything to me before they took him away. He refused to let me see him in prison." She finally let her gaze wander to the stone. It was a simple tomb, probably acquired hastily by her mother or someone who had bothered to take care of him after his death. The wording had been chiseled in carelessly and it was hard to read:

 _Here lies Charles Vega. A traitor to his king and his country. May God save his soul._

Christine stared at the simple words, as if they were meant to summarize her father. Her mask finally fell. Where was the part that said how amazing he had been? Where was the part that said how much he could make her laugh with just a few words, or how he would invent stories that would carry them off into a whole new world? Here lay Charles Vega, the traitor, not Charles Vega, the loving father, and husband.

She went to the tombstone and touched it, imagining that she was touching her father one last time. The small stream turned into a river that coursed through her. Everything she had accumulated during the past year showed itself at last, and stronger than ever.

She broke down crying. Her tears flowed as much as her held back emotions. She never wanted to admit it to herself, but it was her father's death that had been the main weight on her shoulders. Although she was unwilling when it came to marry Hawthorne, it was her duty. A responsibility she knew that she had to go through. But when it came to her father, she knew that she had failed in her duty as a daughter. She had doubted the man that who sired her, the man that had done everything to make her happy. Her cries grew as she lamented. For the first time since her father had died she mourned his death. Her mother came down and placed her arms around her daughter.

"Yes, let it out now, child." Amelia felt her eyes water as well, as the pain of her husband's death was mixed with the pain of watching her child suffer. Christine sank into the comforting embrace of her mother and they stayed there. They didn't know if a few minutes or a few hours had passed by. The cold penetrated both their bodies and soon thick snowflakes fell from the sky, melting as they came in contact with their skin. But they did not care. Here, by the tombstone, they were simply mother and daughter. Not Miss Christine and Lady Amelia, daughter and wife to a traitor.

 _December 20th_

Days had passed since visiting her father's tombstone. The afternoon she had seen her father's resting place she had rushed to the security of her chambers. But the more time she spent there the more she realized that this was no way of living. A growing urge of fulfillment started changing Christine little by little. She had at last mourned her father and once the storm of sorrow passed she emerged a different woman. Mrs. Hammond, George and even Amelia started seeing traces of the old Christine, the determined, strong woman that she had once been. The days she spent recovering from her mourning a single thought coursed her mind. It left her sleepless at night and staring off into the distance as if deep in thought the rest of the time.

Lady Amelia was taking her afternoon tea with her daughter in the smaller sitting room of the castle, only accessible to the ladies. She noted once again how quiet her daughter was as she stared at the shriveled leafs in her cup.

"We have to change it," she said, so suddenly that she surprised her mother with her abrupt outburst. Amelia almost dropped the porcelain on the Persian rug and caught her breath at the small scare.

"What do you mean?" asked Lady Amelia. Her daughter turned to face her mother, her cheeks were rosy from the cold air that seeped in through the tall windows facing east. The fires were slowly dying, making the warmth in the room escape through the small cracks in the walls. Her soft lips were closed in a firm line of utter determination as she hugged the warm teacup harder with her gloved hands. Her expressive eyes cut into her mother's.

"Someone recently told me that if my father was anything like me, then he was a good man. He trusts in his integrity. I don't know if that person is either naïve or a fool. But they put their trust in someone they had never even met." She caressed the warm porcelain and felt the burden on her shoulders slightly lessen. She was not at peace, but she was well on her way reaching it.

"Perhaps he did commit treason, perhaps he did not. You were right, all I ever knew was the father who loved me." Amelia started feeling hope as she saw her daughter slowly coming to terms with occurrences that had happened a year ago.

"All we can do is remember him as he was, not as they painted him to be." Slowly Christine's determined expression turned into a thoughtful one.

"I can only come to peace with all of this once he rests in peace himself," she slowly said.

"You mean that you can only forgive yourself if you set things right?" But Amelia already had an inkling of what Christine was about to say.

"If the king were to pardon him, even in death, he could be moved to the family crypt and perhaps his soul will find salvation," she said hopefully. She found a purpose, something to fight for again. Slowly but surely, her old self was hacking away at the darkness that had held her prisoner. She knew exactly who to turn to for help. There was only one man that could get her to Wessport and into the good graces of His Majesty.

Tristan Hawthorne.


	7. Chapter 7

**A TALE OF ANGLOA**

 _Chapter 7_

* * *

 _December 21st_

The following days turned out to be colder than the previous ones. Cadherra had never seen such a winter. If it continued, people were afraid that they might not survive it. As soon as they stepped outside from the little warmth that their house would provide, their lungs would burn intensely as they breathed in. Their eyelashes and brows would turn white with frost. If they did not cover their faces it would freeze up, turning immobile.

Adelton Hall was not much better off. The thick stone did little in keeping any cold out and even though the servants spent the better part of the day trying to keep all the fireplaces in the castle lit, it was in vain. George decided that they had to hire more workers for the household or the servants would carry a heavy load during the winter.

Joseph's wounds were better and he was able to stand and walk around in his room. But there was little that tempted him from leaving the warm furs of his bed. Christine did not visit anymore. He wondered what went through that mind of hers but he never breached the subject again, which, in the end, was for the better.

It was midday when Mrs. Hammond stumbled upon Lucius as he was taking a stroll from the chapel. At first, she could not recognize him under his thick cape lined with furs, his hood up and a wool scarf draped across his face. She thought she had stumbled upon Tristan. But as she looked closer, she noticed that he was slightly shorter and not as broad across the shoulders. And then there was the lack of the mask. The fog weighed heavy around them and Lucius crossed the courtyard, casting a worried glance toward the main gate that led down from the cliff-side and toward Hayes. If it snowed anymore, they would become trapped until the weather got warmer.

"Baron Chaeld," curtsied Mrs. Hammond as they met in the opening going into the first court.

"Mrs. Hammond," acknowledged Lucius with a nod and looked puzzled at the old woman. Despite the cold, she wore her regular navy blue gown in thick wool, a white apron with nothing but a thin cape draped around her frail shoulders.

He was on his way to meet Tristan. A few townspeople had trekked through the fog to come beg for food and shelter. Their own homes were not enough to shield them from the harsh elements. But he had something else in mind as well, he was determined on playing matchmaker.

"I tell you that never has Cadherra seen such a winter, sir." As they walked inside, Lucius pulled the scarf down from his face, the cold air numbed his features, turning his nose and cheeks red instantly.

"I do not think I have ever seen such a cold winter in the whole of Angloa. They must be far worse up north. No wonder the villagers are asking for shelter."

"Villagers here, asking for shelter? Then we are indeed facing hard times."

"These are the effects of the war, there is little food and provisions left from summer. Due to the high taxes, the people have suffered and they have little left. I am going to Lord Hawthorne as we speak, to inform him of this," said Lucius. Mrs. Hammond scoffed, not afraid to show her dislike for the lord of the castle.

"He will offer them the shelter they need, he may surprise you, Mrs. Hammond."

"I am sure…" They continued walking, heading to the same direction.

"I am glad to see that Miss Vega looks healthier than before." Lucius felt uncomfortable walking with her in silence. Mrs. Hammond's mood, however, did not improve at the forced conversation. She had nothing against Lucius, but she did not take kindly toward his friend. It was something she made very clear.

"Perhaps she would look even better if she did not find herself so alone here."

"Or perhaps she would feel better once she got to know the man she is marrying and stopped fearing him. Lord Tristan is patient and holds great honor—in my opinion—for not pressing Miss Vega into anything. But she—like many in this castle—does not know him like I do. He is an honorable man and if she understood this, then she would see past his mask."

"Maybe," stated Mrs. Hammond and her features softened. "But we cannot force neither Miss Vega nor his lordship into something that is not there," she said and then excused herself as she walked toward the kitchens. But her words had left an impression on Lucius. Maybe Miss Vega would never come to love Tristan, but with a push in the right direction, she could come to know him better. Tristan had saved Lucius many times on the battlefield, so it was his time to repay him. It was time to rid the castle of hurt and sorrow and fill it with joy and laughter. Was he naïve for being so positive? Yes. But if he could bring them closer together, only to become friends, he would have succeeded.

He neared Tristan's quarters and knocked on the door. There was a soft "come in" and he stepped in. The walls had been lined with more heavy fabrics, hanging behind heavy tapestries, and the floor had more carpets, to keep the warmth inside. It was probably the warmest room of the castle and so Lucius shed his furs and cloaks. He sat down in one of the more comfortable chairs by the blazing fire where Tristan was having a glass of fine Rioja wine, imported from Spain.

The masked man was staring intensely into the fire as if in deep thought. He did not even look up when Lucius entered.

"What I would give right now for the warm beaches and the palm trees of the south," he sighed.

"We are in the south," chuckled Lucius.

"I wasn't talking about Angloa." It seemed as if Tristian was reminiscing, his mind in another place and probably in another time.

"Care for a drink?" Tristan pointed toward a cabinet filled with cups and crystal containers, holding all different kinds of liquor.

Lucius shook his head. "No, although I would like it, I am not here to get drunk."

"Then why are you here? To enjoy my wonderful company?" asked Tristan bitterly. Lucius sighed, his friend was being characteristically pessimistic.

"I am here because some of the poorer townspeople are here seeking shelter for the winter. Their huts will not provide the protection they need and lest you help them, they will starve." Tristan took another sip from his cup and sighed. He rested his leather encased head against the soft cushion of the chair.

"They must be truly desperate, to come to the cursed monster of Adelton Hall seeking help," he sneered. Lucius flinched. He did not think that Tristan would've heard the rumors floating around the castle about him.

"Well then, you talk with them Lucius. Do what you see fit," Tristan said, waving a hand. He wanted to be left alone.

"It is your estate and your food Tristan, I cannot just speak for you. Why don't you sober up and I will have them meet you in the Singer's Hall? There you can decide if you will allow them here or not," suggested Lucius, rising from his seat, gathering his coats and furs and headed toward the door. Tristan said nothing and downed the entire cup of wine. If this was how he was going to live, let him at least be drunk.

Outside Lucius stumbled upon Maria—Christine's serving maid—in the corridor. No doubt that she was heading to her lady's chamber. He would, of course, talk with the townspeople himself. But now he had other more important matters to attend to.

He stopped her. "Maria, is it?" The young brunette curtsied deeply and smiled.

"Yes, my lord? What can I do for you?" She added the title, not knowing if she should, but she would rather refer him to a higher social position than a lower one.

Lucius chuckled. "I bring word from Mrs. Hammond. She has asked for Miss Vega to come down to the Singer's Hall later this evening. An hour after the sun has set she is to meet her there for she needs to go over what to do with the wounded in the Palas." Maria looked puzzled.

"I thought the chamberlain took care of such things."

"It seems he has his hands full trying to keep this place from turning into an ice palace. Also, Mrs. Vega has not wanted to take care of such things, as she is not mistress of this household anymore. Mrs. Hammond felt that she wanted Miss Vega's help since she has been the one to most frequent the Palas and heal the wounded," Lucius lied through his teeth, without a care in the world.

"Of course, my lord, I'll inform her immediately." Maria curtsied deeply and quickly headed toward her mistress' room.

Lucius walked away with a smug smile on his face. He hoped the lord would pardon him for the slight white lie he had told.

* * *

The Hall of the Singers was located in the eastern, court-side wing of the Palas, on the fourth floor under the lord and lady's lodgings. It had been designed several hundred years ago as an amalgamation of two rooms: The Hall of the Singers and the Ballroom. It was one of the most decorated halls in the castle and the interior reminded more of a royal palace than an old-fashioned fortress.

The rectangular room was decorated with themes from medieval Angloan tales. But due to the English influence, there was also a strong presence of the Arthurian legend and other English myths and tales. Its longer side was terminated by a gallery crowned by a tribune. The eastern narrow side was terminated by a stage, structured by arcades and known as the Saengen. The Hall of the Singers was never designed for court festivities of the early kings that once had used the castle for their summer escapes to the mountains. Rather, like the Throne Hall, it served as a walkable monument in which the culture of knights and courtly love of the Middle Ages was represented. From the roof, with its rich carved pieces in different hues of ash, oak, and mahogany to the walls, painted in rich colors, depicting different religious and mythological scenes. To the vast tapestries and the slick, smooth sand-colored wood floors, the room was like a storybook where the people who were lucky enough to enter, could stare for hours at all the intricate details and still discover something new each time they walked in.

From the ceiling hung three thick wheel chandeliers made in fire gilt copper. Although there was still light outside the candles in the chandeliers had been lit as had the ones in the many candelabras that were placed in the room.

The long southern side of the rectangular room was made up mainly of windows that allowed a view of the lands south of the castle. It was mainly a continuing flatland that reached for the horizon. But if one looked very hard, one could see the smoke that came from the chimneys of Coldwick, a hard day's ride away.

Christine had arrived early. She was supposed to be there an hour after the sunset but she loved watching the land and sky before her change in color as the sun lowered on the horizon. The fog that had been hanging over the valley for the last few days had cleared toward the evening.

Christine got to see the sky turn into a mix of pink and orange hues as the sun started setting, bathing the entire room in its warm and comforting light. Although she could not see the orb disappear behind the mountains, she was content enough with watching the myriad of colors change in front of her. Soon the crescent moon appeared and together with the vast network of bright stars that the night sky held, they lit up the land under them. The flatlands were bathed in silver and the snow twinkled brightly, lighting up the night even more so. Ever since she had visited her father's grave she could feel a change deep within her being. It had made her lose her insecurities, she had a goal now, a determination.

After a while, she heard heavy footsteps as someone entered the room. Christine had been so lost in contemplating the scenery before her that she had lost track of time. She tore her gaze from the scenery and turned around. The young woman was surprised to find Tristan Hawthorne standing in the spacious hall, right by the door. Tristan was just as surprised to find Christine Vega turning from the impressive view the tall and broad windows offered. But even if the starry sky was beautiful, to him it did not compare to the woman that stood in front of it, bathed in the dull light of the wax candles.

She looked healthier than before: not as frail as she had for these last few weeks. Her features were made soft by the flickering candle lights and as her inquisitive eyes met his, he felt his mouth go dry. She was wearing a sweeping long cream-beige coat of crushed silk velvet that hugged her midsection. It tapered out into a full skirt with a small train at the back. He could still see a hint of red under the coat, suggesting that she wore more layers underneath. Her sleeves and neckline had a marabou trim in light brown and she wore light brown gloves to further protect her from the chill that penetrated the old castle.

"My lord," she said surprised at first as she curtsied, a lock of hair fell into her face. But she soon realized that if she would ever get to Wessport, then she had to get closer to Tristan, even if she did not like the thought of it. And here was a perfect chance. She took a deep breath and steadied herself. There was no waiver in her as there had been before, no shyness, only the determination of a tortured soul.

Tristan started to realize why Lucius had sent him there. He wondered what lie he had told Christine to get her to come, but decided to play along with it.

He was taken aback when, for the first time ever, she met his eyes without hesitation as she spoke. Her voice ran like sweet honey, it was soft and gentle, he had never noticed that before.

"I did not know you were coming as well, my lord." Tristan folded his gloved hands behind his back and stepped into the hall while letting his posture relax. At least she did not seem to shy away from him as she had before. He wondered what had changed since they had last seen each other. Could it be that she was more kindly inclined toward him because he defended her against the maids the other day? He did not know, for during that moment she had seemed as afraid of him as ever. Perhaps someone had talked about him. Whatever it was he was grateful for the positive turn of events. His mind—dull from the effects of the alcohol coursing through his bloodstream—made him less suspicious than he should have been of the woman before him.

"I thought it best that way." He did not know what to say, he had no idea what she was talking about or why she thought he was there. Even though Christine did not shy away from him she was still careful around him and kept some distance between them. It was something, to her surprise, that Tristan respected. For he did not try to get closer to her. After a while of strained silence, Christine was the one to speak first. She had to force the words out in the beginning. Her soft voice gently echoed in the grand hall.

"I don't really know if we should relocate the wounded or not. The Palas is starting to get colder as we go deeper into winter and they still need healing." As she let her mind wander she seemed worried now.

"Then what do you think we should do?" asked Tristan, uncharacteristically cheery from all those cups of wine he had downed during the course of the day. His tone was lighter and his countenance more laid back.

"You want my opinion?"

"Of course. Who else knows this castle and these lands better? You have been taking care of my men all this time and I believe that you will know what is best for them." Christine did not know if she imagined it but she might have seen a twitch in the corner of his lips as if he had almost smiled. She blushed at the compliment—to her utter surprise. The dark and gloomy aura that always surrounded Tristan seemed toned down as if whatever walls he usually had around him had lowered for an instance.

"In that case, and following what the physician said, I think it best we move the remaining six soldiers to share guest rooms." She did not know if it was blunt and suddenly blurted out: "Because the castle has more than enough rooms. Instead of keeping all the fireplaces in the Palas lit we could light the individual guest room fires instead. I believe it would be easier for the maids to work that way as well. They would not have to run through the castle all the time." This time Tristan actually smiled. Christine was intrigued, she had never thought that he was able to perform such an act of joy. It lit up his whole persona even more—a most uncharacteristic trait she had just discovered. It drew out her interest and curiosity more for him now that she was starting to slowly peel away at the many layers of the complex man before her. He quickly discovered her staring and he turned serious again, cursing his tipsy state. But the way she looked at him seemed different now. It was not with fright, nor caution. It was with interest.

"Then I shall have a word with George and so it shall be." When she remained silent he felt unnerved. "You may leave, if you wish." He turned away from her, not wanting to watch her walk away from him. But Christine did not move. Even she was surprised that she did not. For the first time ever she discovered that she did not fear the man in black before her. It was her regained resolve. She had a purpose to fulfill, and she would see it through no matter what.

To gain a pardon for her father she needed to travel to Wessport—to beg for an audience with the king. She still had some friends at court. Lord Athar would lend an ear in her direction and help her, as best as he could. But to get to Wessport she first needed to convince Tristan. And doing so she needed to close the gap between them, for what she was asking was not an easy request.

"I would personally like to thank you," she whispered. Christine did not really know what else to say. She had been so frightened of him and distanced herself so much from him that trying to make him believe that she had a more positive outlook on him would be hard. However, she found that the words sounded sincere, which surprised her.

"You don't have to thank me," said Tristan back. He turned around, masking his own surprise at the girl's willingness to linger longer than necessary in his presence.

"Then allow me to ask for your forgiveness for my impertinent attitude these last few weeks."

"A soul in mourning does not know the sins it commits," he said slowly, looking through the windows. He was the one who was thoughtful now as if his mind had strayed. Something in the depths of his shadowed eyes glinted dangerously and served to remind Christine that he was still dangerous.

"My lord?" she asked. His profile seemed like a sorrowful statue; a Greek, tragic hero, lost in time and thought—looking in the distance. Waiting for someone perhaps? Or reminiscing on better days. The small tension in the room broke and Tristan walked closer to her now.

"All is forgiven then," he said in a husky voice—almost in a whisper—standing right next to her. Christine felt his hot breath down her neck, making the hairs on her body rise as electricity coursed through her body. Her eyes wandered to his masked face as he lingered next to her for a moment. She wondered what he might do, if he was going to act. She knew that she could not send him mixed signals. Stopping his advances now would be foolish. Yet, she did not want to be touched. Not because she was disgusted by the idea, but because she was afraid of what sensation that might awaken in her.

Tristan did not touch her. Instead, he lightly bowed his head and left her alone yet again in the hall. A warm feeling coursed through her body. Her blood pumped furiously through her veins and her heart raced as if she had just run to Hayes.

 _December 23rd_

While the lord and future lady of the castle had come to terms with the changes that were so apparent in their growing relationship, the celebration of Christmas was but two days away.

George and Mrs. Hammond were up to their ears in tasks to complete while stressed servants ran up and down in the castle like small elves. They were making sure that all was prepared for the Christmas feast that would take place the coming day.

Joseph was well enough to walk around the castle with the support of a crutch. Lucius kept going back and forth between the dungeon, Tristan, and the library. He was determined to squeeze more out of Alan Moore. But it seemed that the man would only talk whenever the masked man appeared before him.

Lady Amelia and Christine helped Mrs. Hammond with the decorations, telling the servants of the castle how the Hall of the Singers should be dressed up for the eventful dinner. It was tradition that every year the lord of Adelton Hall held a big feast. Other important families from Hayes and its outskirts would attend as they always had. What was different this year, however, was that the lord of the castle was a different one. Many of the guests that would attend were curious, nonetheless.

Tristan kept busy exercising. If he did not ride out on his stallion, he was either practicing the art of the sword or hand combat. Lucius would fence with him here and there while Tristan had managed to find a worthy opponent in one of the stablemen. The young man was familiar with the same training he had gotten in the East. It was not on the same level as his old master, but it was enough to keep him on his feet and to keep him alert whenever he fought him.

After meeting Christine he felt how he had hope for them. Something told him that their relationship had come over its difficulties and it was only upward from here. It would take time, but he was sure that she would eventually be his. The thought of conquering her thrilled him, like when he chased his prey through Raven's Grove. He only thought of winning her over, a great feat once he had her under his finger. At the same time, he was becoming growingly cautious of his ever-growing fondness of the girl. He had to guard himself because love was something he could never allow himself to have.

Tristan fought Lucius, using new and alien techniques his opponent had never seen before. He kept trying to push away the worry that had been gnawing at him ever since he had spoken with Saxton. He knew that his worries would come true the day the king asked for him, and what would he do then? Would he simply watch his demise with his own eyes, knowing that he could have stopped it at some point? Or maybe he should listen to Saxton and do something about it now—like send someone he trusted ahead to Wessport and investigate. That was his best option.

"Yield!" shouted Lucius as he rejoiced in his victory. Tristan's sword had flown out of his hand and was a few meters to his left. Lucius' blade was pointing right at his heart. Tristan felt the sweat run under his mask and raised his hands in defeat. Lucius' glee was quickly replaced by a frown.

"Were your thoughts someplace else again?" he asked, muttering. Tristan only shook his shoulders innocently and went to pick up his sword. The white shirt he was wearing had unbuttoned at the top, exposing the upper part of his chest. His collarbones glistened with sweat, showing to what length he had exerted himself. To Lucius surprise, he could see a couple of thin, white scars run across it, going up to his neck, only to be hidden by his mask. Tristan was too nonchalant to bother buttoning it up.

"Of course not, Lucius. How could you even think such a thing?" Tristan frowned, looking offended by the idea. But he quickly grinned. "Maybe if we crossed blades again I could win?"

Lucius sighed and had one of the servants rush over to give him some water and a piece of cloth to wipe his face. He cast away the protective vest and let the cold air hit his torso. He handed the footman the sword and shook his head.

"Enough is enough, although I've beaten you three times I think your mind has been with Miss Vega the entire time."

"Not necessarily."

"Then what have you been thinking of? What to wear tomorrow?" Lucius teased making Tristan chuckled despite his worries. He decided to go with it.

"Maybe I should wear more festive clothes than black."

"But you look so good in black…" Lucius trailed off halfheartedly. Tristan handed the servant his sword and protective vest as well, buttoning his shirt and both men walked out of the hall toward their respective quarters.

"You've never seen me in any other color, so how can you know?"

Lucius suddenly grimaced as a mental picture of Tristan wearing breeches with white stockings and bright colors floated into his mind.

"I don't think it would suit you much," was all he could muster, trying not to break into laughter. Tristan patted him hard on the shoulder.

* * *

Night had fallen when the heavy footsteps of a man could be heard as he descended to the lower grounds of the castle. It was a damp and dark place, not fit for a soul to live, yet here were the dungeons. No natural light reached in between the dark, thick stone walls. The torches that had been placed on the walls tried in vain to illuminate the passageways that stretched under Adleton Hall. The damp, dark dungeons did little to keep the chill of the outside elements away. And so they had turned into an icy hell for the poor prisoner that lay freezing on the floor, with nothing but an old blanket and some hay to shield his bruised body.

Alan Moore had been completely dehumanized and broken. Lucius had been the one to interrogate him for the most part, usually using psychology to turn his senses against him. But whenever Tristan stepped foot into the dungeon—which was not often—Alan would turn into a sobbing mess. This time Tristan would try something different.

He unlocked the cell doors and stepped into the stinking block as Alan sat eating a piece of bread with some dried old meat. When he saw the tall, dark menace make its way into his lodgings he dropped his food and went into the corner, like a dog hiding its tail between its legs. Alan Moore curled into a ball and hoped for the best.

Tristan walked up to him and kneeled before him, giving him a blanket and some sweet wine.

"Tis' a cold night, I would not want you to freeze to death," he whispered in a caring manner. Alan did not know what to do. His instincts told him that if he accepted the blanket, he would suffer for it. But his basic needs of protecting himself against the pressing cold made him reach out desperately for something that would warm him. He dared not look anywhere near the mask.

"T-thank you." His whisper was barely audible. He had known harsher men than Tristan, but none had been as intimidating as the latter.

"You know why I'm here."

"Yes," Alan sobbed, hiding his face in his hands. He wished for it to end. Could he ever have a normal life if they released him after this? He was plagued by nightmares of Tristan Hawthorne. That thing was not a man. He did not understand how Lucius Chaeld could even be in the same room as him. Alan did not comprehend what he had seen underneath that mask. All he knew was that he would probably not live to talk about it.

"John Fletcher is not the only person you know that conspired with the English," Tristan stated. It was not a question.

"I cannot give you a name, I have said this countless of times before," Alan said desperately. "Please just kill me already!" he sobbed.

"I will not allow you to die or find peace until you give me something," Tristan whispered as he neared. His masked face was mere inches from the poor man's and Alan got a good look at Tristan's eyes in the light of the blazing torch. He recoiled and started praying to God to forgive him for his many sins and let him find the peace of death and join the good Lord in heaven. Tristan smirked wickedly.

"God cannot help you here," he threatened, his voice lowering so that it sounded closer to the growl of an animal. "God will not help you, ever."

Alan sobbed. Truly Tristan Hawthorne must've been sent by the Devil himself. There was no doubt as he looked into those eyes. Alan had never been a religious man. But in that moment he wanted to atone for all his sins, just to make sure that the demon before him would not send him down to hell—to make him suffer for eternity. Or was he already in hell? He did not know anymore.

"All I know," he commenced as he shut his eyes. He did not want to see the man before him. He did not want to be afraid anymore. "Is that there is someone with a lot of power in Wessport that wanted Angloa to fail in this war. I do not know who it is, only that it is someone close to the king. It is a person that has tried to achieve this for a few years now. It sees you as a threat and that is why I was sent by John Fletcher to send a message to the British and to guard you."

There was a long silence where Alan could only hear the fast beat of his heart. When he opened his eyes Tristan was long gone and he found himself yet again alone in the darkness.

* * *

 **Author's Note: I hope you liked this chapter. I have gotten someone pointing out that the pacing is too slow. I would like to address it here. I completely understand that, but I feel that we are still at the beginning of the story, I want to set every character now, and I think we have really gotten to know them. Don't worry though, soon the pacing will quicken as we go further into the story As always, thanks for reading, those who reviewed and if you liked it, please feel free to leave a review. It is always appreciated.**


	8. Chapter 8

**A TALE OF ANGLOA**

 _Chapter 8_

* * *

 _December 24th_

It was the day before Christmas. All had been prepared in the castle and its interior had its grandest transformation yet, for Tristan Hawthorne had spared no expense.

The Hall of Singers had been decorated lusciously with mistletoe that hung from various places in the castle. Luscious branches of spruce, pine, and evergreen were woven together with thick red and gold ribbons and placed about the room to further bring in the Christmas spirit. In the central court of the castle, a grand pine tree placed and decorated with red ribbons that brightened it up. It loomed over everyone as they crossed the stone structure and they could not help but be taken aback by the tree, standing proud and tall.

In the corner of the Hall of Singers stood a large blue spruce, filling the room with its rich, fresh scent. It was decorated as well with golden ribbons and crystal snowflakes that Tristan bought from a merchant from Coldwick.

Three long tables stood in an open rectangle—in the typical medieval style. The head table was by the short end of the room, by the Saengen. It was further decorated with a red cloth, covering the entire piece. Each table held silver candleholders, each holder capable of carrying five was candles. The head table would house the most honored guests would, including Tristan, Christine, Amelia, Joseph, Lucius and some wealthy noblemen of Hayes. By the long tables would sit the poorer noblemen and some richer commoners from town.

More than 120 guests had responded to the invitations. Many were very interested in seeing the new lord and count of Cadherra. Rumors had been flying around about him in the area. But no one had seen him yet. Others came to enjoy the food as their supply was stretched out due to the early winter. But there were some amongst the invited who only came to judge Tristan Hawthorne and Christine Vega. They hoped that the rumors about Tristan's hideousness were true and that Christine Vega now found herself in an even more desperate and miserable situation.

Tristan could not ignore that the whole ordeal made him uncomfortable. He did not wish to be under the stares of so many criticizing eyes. But he knew what his duty as count was, and he had to get to know the inhabitants of his new county better. They were the ones who provided for him. They were the ones he was forced to keep good relations with—lest he wanted problems for the future.

He would walk along the busy halls during the days of preparing the castle, taking in the new fresh scents; mistletoe, spruce, evergreen, pine, exciting spices and scented candles. He could not stop thinking of the night when he had talked with Christine. He had barely seen her since, and he thought it best that way. She had begun invading his thought more frequently, to the point where he had to consciously force himself to focus. Whatever task he put his mind to, did not distract him as it had before. The only solace he found from her was hunting, something he had started doing more often as the days moved along.

The relationship between Christine and Tristan was no secret to the inhabitants of the castle. And as they heard of their private encounter, all kinds of rumors started flying around. Had the girl given in to the count? Had he forced himself on her? No one knew exactly what had occurred in the Hall of the Singers, but many were curious.

While Tristan found that Christine took over his waking thoughts, he found that his talks with Saxton and Alan Moore completely invaded his dreams. There was no escape from their ominous prediction. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw his future destroyed for not having listened to Saxton, or from not having taken into account what Alan had said. He was now sure that there was someone extremely powerful in Wessport interested in him and with a keen interest in Angloa.

* * *

Tristan tossed and stirred in the late morning in a state between consciousness and deep sleep. He lay under the sheets and furs of his four poster bed. It was grand with four vertical columns, one in each corner that supported a tester, a rectangular panel. This panel had rails with curtains in royal blue, pulled around the bed to stop the draft and light coming in. Expertly carved into the panel was an intricate flora and fauna design. He would stare at it during his waking hours of the night: when the moon shone in through the window and bathed his room in its silver beams—while sleep would evade him.

In his dreamlike state, he let his thoughts wander back to forgotten days. When he lived with Sofia he had been happy, without a care in the world. How young and foolish he had been then. Yet, he missed the old monastery they had lived in during his teenage years. Tristan used to hate getting up with the sun, but now he missed it. He missed the simplicity of life, the gentle teachings, and philosophy that his teachers had shown him.

There was a knock on his door. Tristan barely noticed as he dreamed on, letting the comfort of his youth embrace him and forget his current troubles. Another knock sounded, louder this time. It was not enough to wake him fully, but it did make him stir. The door opened slowly at first, and then all the way as the intruders saw no one in the room.

"My lord?" came the prying voice of Mrs. Hammond. Tristan's eyes opened wide as he gained full lucidity. He sat up swiftly and was grateful for the blinds that shielded him from insight. But his face was bare. He searched around in the darkness and found the piece of leather that shielded him further from prying eyes.

"Maybe he is out riding?" came another voice. It was a young woman talking, maybe another maid.

"Nonsense, he is probably wandering again. I sometimes catch him in the oddest of places. The poor soul will not confess, but sometimes he gets lost in this castle," the old woman sighed.

Her high pitched voice managed to sound motherly to him and it brought a smile to his lips. He actually liked upsetting and irritating Mrs. Hammond. The little woman seemed like a small dog with a high dose of confidence. He was about to reveal his presence when the other maid spoke again.

"Thank you for always coming with me to clean his apartments, Mrs. Hammond. God knows I would not dare to go myself," the young maid said and it made Tristan frown. Did they think him that void of honor that he would just take a maid as he wished? He knew that it was his right as lord of the castle to take any maid there or in the village. But that did not mean that he would actually do it. The only woman that kindled the lusting fire within him was Christine. He did not have eyes for anyone else.

"Don't esteem yourself that highly, Johanna. He would go after anyone else before you child!" exclaimed Mrs. Hammond.

"I do not know how Miss Vega can even bare to talk to him. I would faint even having to say a word or two to him. But then again, she would probably do anything to stay wealthy—even marrying the devil himself," sighed the maid as they walked around his room. Tristan felt a knot in his stomach at what the maid had said. Yes, how could someone like Christine stand being in the same room as he? The knot got tighter as he heard her insult his fiancée. His jaw tensed at the gravity of the insult.

"He is like a monster," she muttered. The maid reminded him of something that he was already well aware of but that he seemed to have forgotten. How could he ever have hoped that Christine would have taken an interest in him? How could he have been that naïve?

"Shush! Such foolish words could very well be your last child!" Mrs. Hammond retorted angrily.

He was lost now, sitting on his bed, staring at the darkness. Tristan clenched his hands and gritted his teeth. Why did he have to endure this? He had repeated it to himself countless times: he should never have returned to Angloa. Sofia was right all along.

Suddenly anger emerged from within him. If he could not be accepted then at least let him be feared. Tristan removed the curtains and stepped out from his safe haven, out from the darkness.

He emerged, barely dressed, with only modest brown hoses and a thin white cotton shirt, with sleeves too long, covering his hands. One could hear a pin drop as Mrs. Hammond and Johanna turned around to see his threatening form.

They had never seen him so undressed. The general thought was that underneath his bulky attire, Tristan was too muscular, too robust. He was someone that might seem clumsy given his size. But instead, they were surprised at the lean figure in front of them. The sun shining in through the window outlined his figure through his thin linen clothes. It made the young maid's mouth open. Feelings and thoughts she had never experienced before rushed through her innocent mind and she became rather flushed. But when both she and Mrs. Hammond noted the furry in his stance she quickly composed herself.

"I would like a word with Miss Johanna," he said, the words sliding off his tongue like venom. Mrs. Hammond's expression turned from slightly irritated to worried. She went to stand between the girl and the intimidating man. He did not scare her—to an extent.

"The girl comes with me, my lord," she managed to say as she caught sight of his eyes. There was a composed rage in them that she did not like.

"The girl stays, Mrs. Hammond, or I will personally throw both of you out into the snow," he said again, calmer now. Tristan had full control over his anger, but not his other emotions. Mrs. Hammond turned around after a moment's silence. She knew better than to speak against him. But she would not let this pass. If she disliked him before, she detested him now. She cast a glance toward the maid and gave her an apologetic frown as she walked past the girl, whose eyes started spilling with tears.

When the door closed behind Mrs. Hammond, the girl turned to look at the intimidating man in front of her. She suspected the worst and grabbed at her clothes, just like Christine would whenever she was nervous. The action made Tristan take a step back. If it were Christine, he would have let the comment pass, he would have stayed hidden behind the curtains, in the darkness. But this was not Christine. This was a maid. She was more than a head shorter than he, dressed in the typical dark blue gown, as the rest of the maids in the castle, with an apron in the front—her strawberry blonde hair in a tight bun. He started walking toward her slowly, like a predator toying with its food before devouring it.

"You have uttered a great insult," he began. The words were almost so silent that Johanna had to focus to hear what he said. She tried to calm her upbeat heart that threatened to rip out of her chest.

"I am truly sorry my lord! I swear it will not happen again."

"I did not say you could speak," Tristan sneered, silencing the girl as she quivered under his gaze. He paced around her in a circle, slowly. "So I am the devil, am I?" he asked.

"No, my lord! I never mea-" she started, her voice shaking. One look from him turned her into a silent and shivering mess. He stopped to stand in front of her, mere inches from her. It was evident that she was fighting hard not to run from where she stood. Johanna looked at the carpet-covered floor and trembled under his penetrating gaze.

"Although I took offense at the insult toward me, I will not allow under any circumstance that my fiancée's name get dragged down further in the mud. Implying that she could marry the Devil, is implying that she is a witch." The maid looked up in shock. She thought that Hawthorne had only felt insulted himself, but she never imagined that he would come to Miss Vega's rescue as well.

"Do you know what they do to those who falsely accuse someone of being a witch?" Johanna kept silent but felt bile rising at the back of her throat. "The way Miss Vega is treated in this castle has come to its end. You are to be the example of what happens if anyone speaks ill of her or me again," he whispered in her ear. His closeness sent feelings of horror down the girl's spine. She could only stare blankly ahead of her as tears streamed down her cheeks. Johanna had no idea what her fate would be now—the days ahead did not bode well.

"What are you going to do with me?" came her timid voice as she diverted her gaze from him. Horrific scenes played in her mind where he tortured her, assaulted her or even killed her. She closed her hands into fists and felt how her nails dug deep into her palms, drawing blood.

Tristan stood there for a moment. He had no care what happened to her, but he would not hurt her. He knew that he could no longer live off his reputation. He had to take action, show that if you insulted him or those close to him, there would be consequences.

"Leave this place." He looked at her, disgusted. "Never return to Adelton Hall."

The girl's eyes widened in shock. She never thought she would be sent away.

"No, my lord, please! Do not send me away!" She fell down on her knees and gripped at the hem of his shirt, begging him with all the might she could muster up. "Hit me, take me as yours, anything! But do not cast me out! I have nothing outside these walls, I beg of you!" she said through tears and hiccups. Her face was distorted by fear and pain, and Tristan looked down at that face, conflicted by his emotions, but strong in his resolve. To her, he turned cruel then. For she thought she saw his true nature.

"Mrs. Hammond!" he shouted, knowing fully well that the older woman stood on the other side of the door, listening in on them. In under a second, she was in the room and by the girl's side, helping her to stand up.

"Escort this young lady to her chamber, have her pack her things and leave tomorrow first thing in the morning," he said, as evenly as he could. Mrs. Hammond stared at him, shocked by such cruel words.

"But my lord, she has nowhe-"

"Have someone escort her tomorrow morning to the village—to wherever she wants to go, just get her out of here," he muttered. The girl was broken by the new development in her life. Due to some ill-guarded words, she lost it all. As Mrs. Hammond helped her gather herself and stand up, she turned to meet Tristan, with sorrow and hurt in her eyes.

"You truly are a monster, Tristan Hawthorne! For you are as selfish and as unfeeling as one!"

"Hush now," said Mrs. Hammond. "This isn't over. I will have a word with him as he calms down," she whispered as they walked out. The girl sobbed loudly as they made their way through the corridor.

* * *

The day passed by slowly. Since the festivities were planned for the following evening there would be no grand dinner that night. There had been no sighting of Tristan as he kept to his rooms for a change. He did not wish to stumble upon the maid, Johanna, or anyone trying to speak on her behalf.

But Christine roamed the castle, taking comfort in the familiar sights of the decorations. Yet, they were grander than before, making the castle turn into a beautiful winter palace. It was truly the stuff of fiction. She had never seen its equal, not even in Wessport.

She was on her way to the one room she had yet to see since returning—the most impressive of them all: the throne room.

The castle had once been the seat of power for one of the three kings of Angloa. And before that, it had housed some visiting English monarchs during the early Middle Ages. It was common for them to come to Cadherra during the harsh English winters, when Angloa had been a warmer country, and they would hold court there.

Her royal blue gown floated gracefully around her feet as she took careful steps, lost in thought. Suddenly, sobs sounded through the corridors and she rose her head to see Mrs. Hammond and a young, blonde maid walk together. Christine recognized the young woman as Johanna, the maid tasked with tidying up Tristan's chambers. It seemed as if Mrs. Hammond was supporting the maid, who looked about ready to fall down from sorrow. When both women noticed Christine the maid tried to hide her cries behind her hands while Mrs. Hammond inclined her head in an apologetic manner. But Christine would not let them pass her without an explanation. Her curiosity was kindled and she could not help but take pity in the crying girl before her.

"What has happened?" she asked, worry shining through her lavender eyes. The maid's sobs got more violent as she leaned more on Mrs. Hammond.

"No, my lady. Do not worry yourself, it is nothing of importance," assured the older woman. But Christine was not convinced. Instead, she walked over to the young maid and removed her hands to reveal a red face, distorted by pain and sorrow. Christine gave her a sad smile and the maid tried in vain to dry her tears.

"Now, why don't you tell me what's the matter?" she asked, her calm and reassuring tone served to calm Johanna who took several deep breaths. Christine handed her a handkerchief.

"I do not want to trouble my lady with my insignificant problems," Johanna suddenly said, her voice breaking at the end. She accepted the piece of fabric and dried her tears and blew her nose.

"No problem is insignificant," reassured Christine, thinking back on her own, urging the maid to reveal what ailed her. But she would not speak. It was Mrs. Hammond that finally revealed the story, hoping that the young lady would dare to have a word with that beast of a man.

"She is to be kicked out, my lady. By his lordship," said she, her mouth forming into a thin line and the maid crying even harder. Christine was horrified by what she heard.

"What? That cannot be true, he would not do that!" she exclaimed in disbelief and surprise. But this time, Johanna spoke up, looking into the lavender depths that were Christine's eyes.

"Aye miss, he did. But he did it because I spoke ill of you and of him." She broke down once more and held the handkerchief to her face to hide her tears and embarrassment. Christine was still trying to make sense of it all. But after a moment's silence, she placed her hands on Johanna's shoulders.

Christine was not surprised that the maid had insulted her. It was something she was used by at this point. She had been in her shoes once, in a similar situation. But Christine had been forgiven then, after she learned her lesson. She knew that she and Tristan were not close, but she wondered if this was another possibility for her to get closer to him and help Johanna as well. If she could make Tristan less extreme in his decisions early on, perhaps he would be easier to live with in the future.

"Do not worry. I am sure we can solve this." She looked at Mrs. Hammond. "Escort her to her chamber, but do not have her leave from there," said the young woman. Mrs. Hammond embraced Johanna once more and smiled in gratitude at Christine who turned around to walk in the direction they had come from: Tristan's apartments.

Her heart beat madly as the gravity of the situation started weighing on her. What if she could not persuade Tristan? She did not want to face him while he was angry. Christine had just started being able to speak to him when he was his normal, arrogant self. She did not need to see him in his fury. It would send her running to Coldwick to catch the first ship to Spain.

Christine arrived at his door and after a few deep breaths, she knocked. No one answered. After looking to see if it was unlocked, she stepped into the room, her parent's old bedroom. It was as she had imagined it before they had moved from Adelton. Now it stood empty, and the bed was still to be made. Her guess was that he was not there.

So Christine started roaming the castle—to seek him out. She hoped that he would take more kindly to her since their last encounter. After she asked around, there was one reluctant servant that mentioned the Throne Hall where she had planned to go originally.

The Throne Hall—a grand rectangular room—was situated in the west wing of the Palas. With its height of 13 meters, it occupied the third and fourth floors. On three sides it was surrounded by colorful arcades, ending in an apse that was intended to hold the king's throne which had survived after many years. But it resided there like a monument of older days. Paintings of Jesus, the Twelve Apostles, and six canonized kings surrounded the throne dais. The mural paintings were created by Artaich, a famous Angloan painter that had lived during the previous century. The floor mosaic was completed after King Philip's long reign. There was a chandelier fashioned after a Byzantine crown with intricate design. The Throne Hall amalgamated the Grail Hall from Parzival with a symbol of the divine right of kings, an incorporation of unrestricted sovereign power.

Over the throne hung the familiar portrait of King Philip. Almost every noble household held a portrait of the Angloan hero. The king had started gaining popularity ever since his death, when his brother Magnus had ascended the throne—not quite like his predecessor.

Philip was the man who had really brought the country together in a golden age of peace. It was usually the same portrait showing the king in his prime. It depicted a young man, with handsome and refined features. He had a chiseled jaw with a straight nose, steely blue eyes that were arrogant yet alert. He had thick, black hair and stared straight into the soul of whoever looked at the portrait. His face was also depicted on some the coins of the country, and he was a well-known king in not just Angloa, but in many countries in Europe as well.

It was in that grand room that Christine found Tristan, staring at the stairs leading up to the now old and frail-looking throne. He was so deep in thought that he did not notice her enter. When she first found him she wondered if she should disappear before he noticed her. Tristan still invoked a sense of caution in her. But she had to make sense of what had happened with Johanna. For surely, he would not just cold-heartedly thrown her out?

"King Philip was the last person to sit on that throne," she said shyly. Her sweet voice broke the otherwise pregnant silence and Tristan looked startled for a split second until he saw who it was. He stared at the frail throne again and looked at it in disbelief. It did not fit in the room at all.

"He deemed that thing worthy?" he asked and his deep rich tones boomed throughout the room. Christine smiled as she stared down at the embellished marble floor.

"It was said that he liked the simplicity of the throne more than the embellished rooms of this castle. That is one of the reasons he decided to have court stay permanently in Wessport," she explained. The young woman fiddled with her skirts. Christine was not used at all being this close to Tristan. She could not help the feeling that she was somehow a lamb standing next to a wolf. Tristan only nodded and started making his way away from her. Christine frowned as he left.

"I cannot help feeling that my lord does not find my presence pleasing," she blurted out without thinking. He stopped with his back to hers. Tristan took some time before turning around, his head slightly lowered.

"Not at all, Miss Vega," he muttered and bowed while continuing to the door.

"Then why are you so quick to leave now?" she burst out out again and took a few hesitant steps toward him.

"I think it is for the best," he stated. There was an undertone to his voice that Christine did not like, as if he hid some anger.

"What makes you think so?" she asked, but still standing her ground. Tristan emitted a sarcastic laugh and just shook his head. "Have I done something to you that you treat me like this?" she asked angrily.

The moment she finished, he walked over to her in long strides, calmly stopping right in front of her and the closeness made Christine take a step back. It sparked new irritation within him.

"Do you see your reaction whenever I'm near you?" he growled. Christine's delicate brows rose in disbelief. She wondered what insult the maid had said—she was starting to have an inkling.

"I know very well of my reaction, my lord. You startle me. That is all," she said in a shaking but truthful voice. The young girl was trembling faintly as she rose her head and stared at his chest now. Tristan just laughed dryly. She never knew the full meaning behind his words. Christine never understood the real question that he was asking: _am I still a monster to you?_

"Startle you..." he trailed off bitterly. "Of course."

He turned from her and all she could do was stare at his tense back. For once, Christine put herself in his shoes. Not once had she taken into consideration that he might actually have feelings as well. She had heard the whispers and rumors floating around the castle: the monster of Adelton Hall, Tristan Hawthorne. Might the maid have uttered them in his presence?

"Might your reaction have something to do with the maid, Johanna, cleaning your chambers with Mrs. Hammond earlier?" she asked. Christine had no idea what his reaction would be and there was a tense moment where both of them just stood there in silence. His shoulders slowly relaxed as he turned around, facing her.

"Do not defend her, she spoke unjustly. It is my right to have her leave," his full lips spoke, catching her attention. Their closeness made her flush and feel uncomfortably warm. But she did not back away. She needed not only to gain his acceptance to get to Wessport but also to help Johanna.

"As a lord and a count you must be the bigger person. A slip of the tongue should not warrant a person being thrown out into the icy winds of winter, with no family or penny to their name," Christine said, thinking of the sobbing girl.

"I do not care for her insulting you, Miss Vega," Tristan said, almost whispering. Christine knew that already. But she did not expect that he would do such an act for her, to defend her name. Once again, he had stepped in and proved himself her savior.

"I know she spoke ill of me. I am grateful that you defended my honor. But she is young. I have committed the same sin, but I have had the fortune of being forgiven. So why cannot you forgive her?" she pleaded. Her reasoning made her seem more mature than Tristan had initially thought. He wondered if it was partly due to her harsh previous year—in the shadow of her father's death. He was amazed that their relationship had progressed to such a state where they could have a normal conversation without her recoiling.

"I never break my word. She needs to be punished for what she said, she needs to be made an example of," he said proudly. Christine sighed inwardly, sometimes she asked herself how many reputations and kingdoms had fallen because of one man's pride and arrogance.

"Well, you can keep your promise. You can punish her and still keep her here in the castle," Christine began. "I am sure that a week's work as a scullery maid will set her straight again. Have you no compassion for what would happen to her out there, alone in the world?"

Tristan stared at her lavender eyes and saw her measuring every part of his being in them. He recognized in them the same headstrong and resilient young woman he had seen upon his return to King James' court. But Tristan did not want to appear as a lesser man before her, for then he could lose her. He did not want to appear unfeeling, void of emotion. Christine's hope grew as Tristan sighed in defeat.

"She will be working as a scullery maid for a month," he muttered, annoyed that she managed to persuade him, but thankful. Tristan understood now that he could never do such a thing to that young girl.

But what was the difference between Johanna and Alan Moore? Only because Alan Moore's crime had been significantly worse, did that mean that the man should suffer a worse fate? He had repented, and Tristan had no personal grudge against him. Christine made him see reason when his anger ruled his senses. In battle, everything had been easy because it was easy to switch off one's emotions. But life… it was something else. He had always lived by the philosophy that emotions could get you killed, and now he found that suppressing certain of his emotions made him a worse person. It made him lack honor, and he had always prided himself as being an honorable man.

As he looked down on her happy face, he saw her lips move but could not make out the words. He only heard the sound of his blood rushing through his veins. His heart beat loudly and he was afraid, for the first time in a long time. He was afraid that he had started feeling some deep affection for this girl. And he was even more afraid that his feelings wouldn't be returned.

 _December 25th_

They sat by the head table in the large room as the guests started rolling in. Finely dressed women and men stared in awe around them as they were led through the lavish corridors. Their mouths nearly dropped as they got to see the Hall of Singers. Some noblemen had been there years before but they were still impressed—like always—by the intricate design and details of the hall.

However, most people looked in curiosity toward the head table where Tristan sat, dark, brooding and mysterious next to a beautiful Christine Vega. She dressed in an elegant lavender blue dress with a darker blue damask pattern matching her eyes. The skirt of the gown opened up at its front, showing another pale yellow skirt in fine fabric under it. Her golden locks were up, held in place by ornate pins and she wore a small crown made from golden leaves. To most in the room, she looked like a Greek goddess and there were many that envied Tristan that moment. Tristan himself was wearing a dark blue jerkin in velvet with a small flared collar. He wore black gloves and his black mask as usual. And finally, he wore a fine pair of dark breeches with his finest polished boots. It was one of his finer outfits that Mrs. Hammond and even George insisted on him wearing. Mrs. Hammond had even said at one point that if it wasn't for himself, then he should at least make an effort to look good for the guests. He had to leave a lasting impression of Adleton Hall. Tristan did as the old woman wished although he doubted that most guests would look at his clothes.

After he had allowed Johanna to stay, the old woman had taken a kinder approach to. He still remembered how—early that morning—he had ventured to the servant's quarters himself and asked to speak with the girl. At first, she had been frightened of him. But when he said that she was allowed to stay—under the condition that she now be a scullery maid, taking twice the workload of the other maids—she agreed. Her face had turned from that of sorrow to hope and gratefulness. She had gone down on her knees and clasped her hands tightly in front of him, deeply apologizing and thanking him. But when Tristan said that it was Christine she should thank and apologize to, Johanna still insisted that she owed him a great debt of gratitude. But nonetheless, she had almost immediately run to Christine to apologize for her brash words and to thank her.

Tristan was soon brought out from his thoughts by the arrival of the last guests. As he suspected, most of them stared in horror at his masked while nearing the head table to get a closer look at him. Tristan sighed silently, but still kept a menacing aura about himself.

He finished his third cup of wine that evening, feeling the effects of the alcohol coursing through his blood. He didn't let the whispers and stolen glances get to him.

There was a moment where Christine noticed the way the guests were looking at Tristan. She had once been like them and was in amazement of how quickly one's outlook on someone could change. She received some looks as well, but most were the opposite. Men stared at her with lust, finding that she had grown since departing for Wessport a year ago. Women stared at her with disdain because her name was dirty. Christine could still not imagine what Tristan must go through at that moment. But if the glances and whispers affected him, he never showed it. He was as stoic and silent as ever.

A group of people that Christine could not fail to notice entered to room and Tristan—sitting next to her—could hear her swallow loudly. Christine knew them well. They were three families that had been very close with her own. They always spent time together when her father was alive and she had seen those men and women as her family, even though they were not related by blood. But when her father had been taken away, none of them had spoken out or tried to defend him. One of the women, Margaret Wynd, wife of Nicholas Wynd, a local baron, had come to them to offer her deepest apologies. She had been there for her mother, the few weeks they had stayed near Hayes. She had been Lady Amelia's only emotional support next to Christine. Lady Wynd was the only woman to meet Christine's eyes. She looked at the young girl, sitting next to the menacing Tristan Hawthorne and felt her heart cry out for her.

Behind them came a younger group of men and women. They were the children of said families: the Wynds' the de Bergs' and the Martels'. They had been Christine's friends once.

She shifted her gaze away from the four women and three men that walked in. They, of course, noticed her instantly and most of them could not help their lips turn into a thin line as they saw her next to Tristan. One or two shot her a wicked glee, taking great pleasure seeing the truth of the rumors. When Tristan saw this, together with Christine's eyes turning blank and dull, he leaned in closer, as if wanting to shield her from the arrows sent her way. His judgment might have been clouded as he downed yet another cup of wine.

Her nostrils filled with his scent; pine, sandalwood and leather. She got distracted by her former friends and felt how her eyes wandered to Tristan. His closeness made her uncomfortable as she blushed, feeling her heart gaining speed and her hands twitching for her skirt. She looked away—never meeting his gaze—embarrassed at her reaction. Tristan found it surprising at first, but then amusing. She could hear a deep, discreet chuckle escape him. The sound was like music to her ears as it boomed, the vibrations running through her. It was the first time she heard him laugh.

"Stop," Christine whispered in his direction, bringing up a pale blue fan to hide her red face with. She could see his mouth, it was smiling, actually smiling.

"Stop what?" he asked, playing the fool. It only teased Christine further and she grew more flustered. Until this point, no one in the room had noticed their peculiar exchange. But slowly, Lucius started listening in and glancing at the couple, surprised at what was taking place before him.

"This…, what you are doing!" she hissed through her teeth, trying to keep a straight face as she looked forward, ignoring his warm breath on her shoulder. Christine shivered, but it was not like before when she was wary of Tristan. This was a different type of shiver.

"What am I doing?" he asked. She had completely forgotten about her old friends and her attention was now entirely focused on trying to regain control over her actions. Tristan had used similar tricks on other women before, but he never thought Christine would respond in such a way. He was pleasantly surprised. He leaned in slightly closer, reaching beyond her, grabbing a cup by her side, looking at it and claiming that it was dirty. Tristan asked a maid to bring a new one.

"You know very well what you are doing, my lord," she said, almost irritated. Lucius watched them, intrigued. When Tristan leaned in closer, he almost choked on his wine. It served to alert Lady Amelia of what was going on as well.

"Did I startle you?" Tristan asked innocently. Christine wondered if he was getting back at her from their conversation the previous day.

"You know you did," she responded through gritted teeth and fanning herself, thankful that none of the guests noticed their intimate exchange. She had no idea he could have such an effect on her, she did not like it at all. She wanted to have a clear mind whenever she spoke with him. Tristan only sighed and leaned back into his chair. He could feel Lucius' eyes on him, filled with questions and a certain expression that asked him 'what are you doing?'

The Hall was finally filled with noble men and women from all over the county of Cadherra. There was a general murmur as people whispered about the lord of the castle. This was the man that had so valiantly saved the country from the English? The rumors about a scarred face had come to be somewhat true. Some looked at Christine and her mother in pity to have to live under such circumstances.

Most of Christine's old friends, young women that had abandoned her when her rank in society had gone down, looked at her in defiance. They were glad that she had only come to know more grief. They started gossiping immediately about her and her husband to be. But there were two that looked at her in grief, ashamed of their passiveness when she had lost everything and saddened at her new reality. They were Louisa de Berg and Catherine Martel. They had grown up with Christine and the three of them, together with Annette Wynd, had been like sisters. A year had been all it took to break that relationship. Louisa and Catherine had been told by their parents to stay away from Christine. They were not allowed to write her or speak with her. Soon they became occupied with other thoughts, mainly the war, slowly forgetting about their fallen friend. Annette, however, had always been slightly jealous and irritated of Christine. So she took no shame in casting her away, even though her mother, Margaret Wynd, had shamelessly been there for Lady Amelia in the beginning.

Tristan signaled the servants to bring out the food that had been prepared for the evening. Soon the fragrance of food wafted through the air as servants started carrying trays of various meats from the kitchens. The guest started flavoring the meads and wines while eating away. They were entertained by various jesters and musicians; hired to play the whole night. A few moments after having started, Tristan signaled for the musicians to stop playing. He started sobering up and felt it was time for a speech. All eyes were on him as he rose from his seat, surprising many with his tall, lean frame. The new clothes he wore did not make him look as bulky as before. His commanding presence silenced the guests in an instant.

"I welcome you all to this yule celebration," he started—his deep, rich voice boomed throughout the Hall. "We are reminded of the birth of our Lord and Savior. I want each and every one of you to take a moment to realize how lucky we are, being able to have this food and wine at our table when there are people freezing and starving." Everyone was listening intensely as he spoke.

"I want you to join me in a toast for the end of this war, but also for the luck we have had to come to be here." He rose his cup and all in the hall did the same. They drank and soon the musicians started playing a merry tune again. Many of the guests started speaking about the irony of his words, for how could a man with such an appearance talk about luck? They came to wonder how it was that Christine was even able to sit next to such a vile thing. Secretly, however, most of the women there, even if afraid of him, found themselves drawn to him. He showed strength in himself and did not seem to be affected at all as most people sneered at him behind his back, even if it was very noticeable. They had never seen such a man, living in their secluded estates and mansions, bored beyond belief, longing for court life or for the European mainland.

There came a moment during the evening when the music ended and the tables were cleared. The servants came and moved the furniture to stand against the walls, and so, the dance floor had been cleared.

The Hall of Singers now had its previous empty space, outlined by its guests and the tables and chairs. It was time for the first dance, an Angloan tradition dating back at least five hundred years. Tradition called for the host of the feast to pick a partner. Tristan knew this, and he also knew that he was not necessarily obligated to choose Christine.

If there was one thing on this earth that Tristan particularly disliked, it was dancing. All eyes were now on him as the room turned quiet, only a few murmurs and whispers could be heard as the tension rose. Being chosen as the partner for the first dance was an incredible honor, usually reserved for the woman of the highest rank. It would have to be Lady Yolanda de Berg, who was married to a viscount, ranking lower than that of a count, but still higher than most in the hall. She looked at him, her dark hair pulled into a tight bun, managing to bounce in anticipation as she awaited Tristan to near her.

Christine and Lady Amelia were only noblewomen with no specific rank. Lady Amelia lost her title when her husband died and Christine could not receive her father's title as his status as traitor did not permit him to pass it on to his daughter after his death.

The musicians waited in anticipation, wondering who his lordship would go for. There were some in the room that already knew the answer. Lucius, Mrs. Hammond, Maria and George smiled as Tristan took long and decisive steps toward Christine, stopping just before her and bowing deeply. She looked around the room and blushed, accepting his hand. He took her petite hand in his large one and led her to the dance floor. Tristan could feel her nervousness as he led her through a sea of critical eyes. He squeezed her hand, reassuring her that he would not leave her side. She squeezed his back.

A slow and sweet melody played as they started dancing a _pavane_ , a court dance meant for entertainment and display of the skill of the dancers. It was a poetic sight—the most dramatic of the bunch kept saying.

The beauty danced with the beast, it was indeed something out of a fairytale.

Others argued that it was a horrible sight to see such an innocent girl so close to that enigmatic man. But there were some in the crowd that did not mind Tristan at all. They had no reason to despise him as it seemed most in the crowd did. They rather respected him for not bending under the critical eyes and whispers.

Soon, everything around Tristan seemed forgotten and he only had eyes for her. Christine let herself be led and felt how the music rushed through her, sending adrenaline rushing through her body. They shut out the stares and whispers and grew closer in body and spirit. But they still held the tasteful distance that the dance required. When the music stopped, he bowed and she curtsied. He led away from the dance floor as the crowd applauded at the beautifully executed dance between the two. When they stood on the side, her hand in his, she found that she did not want to let go.

* * *

 **Author's Note: I would like to thank those who read and review this fic. A special thanks to Shiloh Grace, who helps me as beta reader. Also, a special thanks to Storms in my Coffee for reviewing this story! :) I would like to thank guest reviewers as well :)**


	9. Chapter 9

A TALE OF ANGLOA

 _Chapter 9_

* * *

 _December 26_ _th_

The stillness of an early winter morning swept over the valley. The cold harshness of early dawn saw no sign of life as all creatures kept warm and secure inside their homes. In the castle, perched high on its cliff, most people were still in their soft beds, resting from yesterday's festivities.

Only Tristan Hawthorne was up, clothed in woolen jackets and dark bear furs. Ever since he had left his drunk guests sometime past midnight he had tossed and turned under his covers. Sleep evaded him now more than ever, he needed to get away from it all. Hunting was all he could do. But as the days and weeks progressed, slowly, tediously, he felt as if he were being chased. The anxiety that ate away at his mind grew. There were so many things that had happened recently. Saxton's warning and Christine's slow change in attitude toward him had him confused and worried. He needed to go somewhere where there was nothing but him and nature.

Joseph and Lucius were still sleeping as they had been up most of the night, drinking and making merry. He did not want to disturb their sleep. When enough time had passed, he decided to set out with one of his soldiers and two servants he had found, wandering around in solitude in the empty corridors.

The morning sky had been a dark gray as they had set out. The angry clouds looked threatening as the dove deeper down into the valley and into the forest. They had not gotten far before the two servants warned their master that the angry clouds could mean a big snowstorm was nearing. They did not have enough courage to insist on returning but made sure that their worries were heard. Alas, Tristan was arrogant and ignored them. All he could do was breath in the chilly air, feeling the ice in his lungs bring him out of his stress and kindle new life within him. He had the group ride into the forest. Soldier and servants were alert, not for prey, but for other things that might lurk in between the trees, where no light would touch the ground. They held their torches high, to illuminate the darkness that hug around them like a black, asphyxiating blanket of shadows.

Hours seemed to pass, yet time stood still inside the forest. No light from the sun could show what time of day it was. The men could only see dark, naked tree crowns, weighed heavy by masses of snow.

Tristan bagged yet another rabbit, satisfied. Droplets of blood had already frozen, mixed into the stirred snow. Soon, snow fell from the naked crowns. The forest roof let in what little light the dark sky offered. It seeped through like faint beams, weak and barely able to illuminate the dark interior of the forest. With the light came strong winds that stirred the snow from the ground. He wondered how strong the wind had to be outside the thick forest for it to make its way through the wide crowns and broad tree trunks.

"My lord!" Shouted one of the servants as the winds picked up both speed and force. "We should make haste to the castle! The storm will take us down if we do not leave now!" He said, growing more and more nervous by the minute. It was evident that neither the servants nor the soldier wanted to prevail for much longer in the forest. Tristan was not keen to leave. He did not wish to go back to the castle and to all the problems it held. His mind had remained at peace, for a few moments. Not even Christine had managed to invade it as was so usual lately. But safety was more important than his personal feelings. So they all turned their horses. The few rabbits he had caught were safely kept in a sack on the side of his horse. He was sure that their bodies had already frozen, or they would freeze solid before they made it inside the fortress.

The winds picked up more strength. As they neared the tree line their horses became spooked. Tristan's gray stallion reared, casting his owner to the ground and running in a crazed gallop after the other horses. None of the group had noticed their lord missing as they were reassured when they saw his horse behind them, barely visible through the fierce snowstorm.

Tristan found himself thigh deep in snow, several miles from his castle. He was far from Hayes as well. It took a few seconds for him to register the urgency of his situation. He had to find shelter before the snowstorm completely eradicated him. Tristan pulled the scarf over his mouth, to protect it from the small, icy darts that the wind stirred up. He only wished he had something to protect his eyes with.

The frozen forest and its elements did not favor him as he pulsed through the powdery snow. He did not know how long he had wandered. Tristan felt hope dwindle as he suspected that no one would send help after him. Who would, in their right mind, ride out in this storm to risk their own life for his? The snow reached his waist when he finally collapsed. He did not know if he had walked further into the forest or if he was on its outskirts. Nothing was tangible as the frozen crystals kept shooting into his eyes, obstructing his view. It seemed as if he was in a white, icy inferno.

All he knew was that he had been walking for hours. Tristan was tired. Maybe he could just lay his head to rest here and give up? It was more comfortable to go to sleep and let the cold seep into him, to take him away. He let self-pity wash over him, he let his rigid posture falter and his proud shoulders lower, he had no image to keep up here. There was no one there that would look at him, judge him. Maybe he should've never come to Angloa. He had loved traveling the world with Sofia, discovering new places, rich cultures, and ways of life each time. He did not know why he had insisted on going to Angloa, his home country. It had done little for him. Receiving a county, a title, and an unwilling bride was not his idea of gratitude. Yet he had been grateful then, hadn't he? As his tired body slowly sank into the snow, he thought of Christine. They had made so much progress. He never thought in a million years that she would ever even dare to touch him. But he realized then that it had only been when he had opened up to her when he had let his walls fall that she had neared him. He closed his eyes, letting the sound of the wind lull him into sleep. Sofia would no doubt have cursed him for giving up so easily. But he didn't care, she wasn't there.

* * *

Meanwhile, as early night fell, the riders that had gone with Tristan had barely made it back to the castle. It wasn't until they were inside that they discovered that the Count had not made it back with them. The two servants were not that worried since they cared little for that masked man. But the soldier, someone who respected Tristan, was frantic. He wanted a search party. He went to find Lucius and Joseph. Both men rested, still in bed, with an aching head from the previous night's drinks. But as soon as they heard that their lord and friend was in trouble they did not hesitate one instance and raced to the stables.

Christine was walking past the courtyard when she saw them running. Joseph moved with difficulty as his injuries had not healed completely, toward the stables. She ran after them and stepped outside, onto the courtyard and went to them.

"Where are you going in such a hurry?" She asked worriedly to Joseph. The young man frowned, showing his own worry. It was the first time they had talked since their fight. But all personal grudges and emotions were set aside.

"Tristan, he went out hunting." He said, displacing all decorum. "They say his horse spooked, and he fell. He is still out there!" Joseph pointed toward the gatehouse. Beyond they could see the raging storm and Christine's eyes widened in fear. She looked back at Joseph, speechless. Lucius mounted his stallion, and they both set out with a few soldiers, despite the heavy complaints of the other servants, who argued that it was too dangerous.

She ran back immediately, to search for Mrs. Hammond. She rounded a corner and almost knocked the older woman over.

"What is your hurry child?" Asked a baffled Mrs. Hammond.

"We need to light the fires again in his lordships chamber and have them prepare extra blankets." She said while composing herself. It would serve no one if she let her worry take a hold of her. How could Tristan have been so foolish? She explained to Mrs. Hammond what was afoot and the old woman looked carefully at Christine. She had no idea the girl would've cared so much for the masked man.

* * *

The winds would not settle down and as darkness fell, so did the temperature. Tristan thought he had passed at first. But soon he realized that he found himself in a cave, next to a warm fire, with several blankets over him. He stirred, noticing that he was not alone. His whole body tensed visibly as he took in his surroundings. The cave was a small one, it could probably only fit two or three people. Most of the opening was covered in snow. And there he also saw a figure, facing the entrance. When he stirred, the figure turned around. He pulled down the hood and Tristan was greeted with a pair of charming eyes, a cocky smile, and red hair. Of course, he sighed. Out of all the creatures in the world it had to be Saxton that saved him.

Saxton was not his usual easy going self. Instead, he seemed serious, even worried. He walked to Tristan and sat down next to him as the other shivered under the furs and blankets. He was too proud to acknowledge that he had just been saved.

"Winter grows harsher. This is the worst winter I have seen in years." He murmured as he got a small bottle from his inner coat, opened it and handed it to Tristan. He did not think twice and downed the contents of the flask; strong spirits that only served to wake his aching body from its deep slumber.

"Why did you save me?"

"I did it for me, Hawthorne. I am a very selfish man. If you perish, then it wouldn't take long for the next lord, whoever he is, to completely take me and my men out." Tristan bit his lip and felt them go thin, he had not expected more from Saxton, yet he was disappointed with the answer.

"Who is to say that I will not return again to Raven's Grove, with more men next time?"

"You are a man of honor. You will not do it. Especially since I have kept my word and kept from stealing any travelers going through my forest." They turned silent as the storm waged outside. "But, I feel that there might be more important questions plaguing your mind." Saxton commenced, looking as if he had read Tristan's mind.

"Nothing plagues me." He retorted, angrily.

"If nothing plagues you, you would not be wearing that mask." Saxton said, almost sadly as he pointed at the piece of leather that covered Tristan's face from insight. When he got no response from the weak man, he continued, "Have you taken my warning into consideration?"

The anxiety he had hoped to escape had only returned tenfold now, and the growing headache made Tristan wish he had perished in that snow.

"What would I do, if I went to Wessport?" He finally asked, the weak voice breaking the peaceful silence. He wanted some peace of mind. It was hard to bear the weight of knowing that he might be able to stop a disaster before it happened. Ever since interrogating Alan Moore, he knew that it would be best to return to King James' court and try to find out who the traitor was.

"So you finally came to your senses then?"

"I never said so."

"If you go to Wessport, then that means that you have chosen to listen to my words. Good." Tristan looked at Saxton and felt how the alcohol slowly warmed his body further. When he said nothing Saxton continued.

"When you arrive there, anything you have managed to find out is to be informed to Lord Thomas Athar, one of King James' closest advisors. I repeat once again that he is the only man you can trust within the walls of the city."

"And what then? Shall I blindly let him guide me to do whatever he sees fit?" Tristan whispered, still too weak to argue further. Saxton paused, and a look of worry spread across his features.

"To be honest, I am not certain. Anything beyond this forest is beyond my reach. I cannot help you in Wessport."

"I never asked you to help me."

"I never wanted to help you. You're arrogant and self-righteous. Yet, you are noble and live by codes of chivalry that died off centuries ago. Your values do not fit in a world of greed, of lies and deceit." Saxton said and turned away from him. There was more to his words than he chose to show, it was clear to the both of them. Yet Tristan did not ask any further questions about the subject. The man before him seemed to carry a lot of weight as well. It made him wonder if, by some twisted fate, Saxton had never committed the sins of murder.

Through the harsh storm, shouts could suddenly be heard. Saxton rose quickly from where he had been sitting and ventured out of the cave. He returned as soon as he had left.

"It seems your friends have not given up on you. A small group of men on horseback is making its way to this cave as we speak. They must have seen the fire." Tristan's eyes widened. He never thought that anyone would actually bother to come and look for him. He thought that if anything, more people would want him gone than come back safe and sound to the castle. Saxton seemed agitated. The bandit knew he could not linger, for the other men might restrain him, thinking that perhaps he had had something to do with the Count's current state. He collected some of the furs he had placed on Tristan, preparing to leave. Saxton said nothing as he disappeared suddenly, leaving the masked man alone with the fire slowly dying out. The world around him seemed to blur and collapse, like the dying embers of the fires. Tristan heard the shouts come closer and closer as if he were at one end of the tunnel. Soon Lucius and Joseph entered the cave, amazed and happy to find their friend alive.

An ensemble of riders made their way tediously through the snow. The icy crystals almost reached the horses' stomachs as the heavy downfall would not stop. Lucius kept making sure that Tristan would not fall asleep, he had a great difficulty in keeping the larger man behind him on the beast that carried them. It did not take long for them to reach Adelton Hall, the lights from within shining like a beacon of hope for the tired men. The horses were weary as well, barely managing to carry their riders to the courtyard before letting their tired heads collapsed near their hooves.

George stepped out, his frail form almost carried away by the ever-growing winds. He could barely see with the snow slashing across his face, getting into his eyes. He had been informed by one of the men keeping a lookout from the guard-post in the highest tower that riders were approaching.

As he stepped further into the courtyard he saw Tristan, supported by Lucius, as Joseph tried to get the masked man off the horse. He quickly neared, fearing the worst. The lord of the castle showed no signs of life as his limp form was dragged to the ground.

"We have to get him warm now!" Lucius shouted through the snowstorm. George did not answer but instead had two footmen approach with a makeshift litter that they had used for the wounded soldiers only a few weeks earlier. They quickly loaded the limp form covered in furs on and carried him to his quarters. He looked more like a bear than a man as he lay wrapped in his furs. Lucius, Joseph, and George followed hastily. Servants that ran up and down the castle tending to the fires looked with discern as the group passed through the decorated hallways and corridors, making their way to Tristan's room.

"We need a fire prepared and more blankets." Urged Lucius as they neared his chambers.

"All is prepared, someone is already waiting in the room." George looked down at the still form. He wondered how he could have survived such an ordeal, to be out in the snow for so many hours was indeed a great feat. But he wondered if it would cost Tristan his life. They closed in on his chambers and opened the door. A pleasant wave of heat washed over them. The fire was crackling loudly, a maid piling as much firewood as she could fit into the fireplace. By a damask screen, there was a larger pile of wood where two women were stacking it, soon to be cast into the fire. All men were surprised to find Christine and Maria.

Christine wiped her forehead from the arduous work. In truth, every maid she had asked to help her carry the firewood and prepare for Tristan's arrival had promptly refused her. Excuse after excuse had sent her into a wave of anger and she completely dismissed the servants. She decided that if it had come to this, then she would help him. However, Christine had not expected the sight before her. A limp Tristan was carried in on a litter, covered in dark furs. His eyelids appeared so heavy that they appeared to be glued together and his breath too slow and shallow for her liking. Lucius and Joseph looked weary as well. Joseph's limp seemed to have gotten worse as he had to take to the wall for support. His and Christine's eyes met a split second, Joseph was surprised to find that she wasn't paying any attention to him, her eyes were fixed entirely on Tristan. Meanwhile, George's face had turned white with worry, for how would the Chamberlain of Adelton Hall look if he lost another lord to the everlasting grasp of death?

Christine did not have time to think, she did not know what to do. The maid that had kept throwing logs into the fire noticed the company as well. She excused herself as she saw that more people were there and she figured that she was no longer needed.

"Put him on the bed." Murmured Lucius to both footmen. They carried the heavy man over to the vast bed and laid him there, backing away and leaving the room. Christine felt her heart drop, the servants in this castle cared nothing for her. She had always thought that she was the only one receiving a cold shoulder, but it seemed that her fiancé was treated the same. Suddenly she realized that it did not matter how much good he had done. To them, he looked different and intimidating, and that only prompted the servants to distance themselves from him. She thought herself a fool. For she had kept to her room, lamenting her sorry existence when it was, in fact, Tristan who had all the right to do so.

As Maria kept piling the firewood, while checking on the fire, Christine hesitantly neared the still form. Joseph and Lucius started removing the soaked furs. There was no place for decorum here, what mattered was that Tristan needed to get warm, and soon, or he would never open his enigmatic eyes again. Christine put aside her thoughts and feelings. She helped both men rid Tristan of his furs, blankets, thick gambeson, wool jacket jerkin and boots. The only thing left on his body was a thin white shirt, socks, gloves, mask and his brown trousers. She had never seen him so underdressed. His form was not as bulky as she had expected. He was strong and lean, carrying the form of a fighter, a warrior, not of a man of leisure. His strong, muscular chest slowly rose up and down with every deep breath he drew. His arms and hands, still covered by gloves, although now still and useless, looked strong enough to bend steel. The tight trousers outlined defined thighs and calves. His form reminded her of one of the marble statues that could be found in the gardens, depicting Greek mythological heroes and gods. The more she stared, the more she found herself drawn in by him, she wanted to touch him. That was something she had never wanted to do before. Her small hand neared him, slowly. Lucius and Joseph silently noticed, and Lucius took her wrist in his hand.

"Another time Christine, or this will be the last you see of him." She snapped out of her trance and her vivid lavender eyes suddenly found their way back to reality.

"I think it's best if I leave the rest to you." She murmured as she noticed why they were hesitating in further undressing Tristan. Both Lucius and Joseph agreed as Christine started walking out.

To their surprise Maria scoffed, she promptly walked over to the lot, covered in soot.

"My lady has run up and down this palace trying to get help with preparing the fireplace. No one would help, so she did it herself. Now you wish for her to just leave him here, without the satisfaction of being able to take care of him?" Maria did not care for decorum, or for the fact that Christine might see Tristan naked. She only cared for what was right. Christine had a right to be in that room, for she was the future lady of the house. Joseph started arguing with the maid and soon Christine told them to stop.

"While we stand here arguing back and forth his lordship is freezing to death. I will step out, and when he is in bed fully _proper,_ I will return." She said haughtily. She took one last glance at his still form and told Maria to come with her. The way she stared down the maid made her think twice about voicing her opinion again. Maria followed suit, her head bent down in a sign of submission as she closed the door behind them.

Lucius and Joseph found themselves alone at last with the enigmatic man before them. He looked back at Tristan and realized what was about to happen. He was about to see the man unmasked. Joseph hesitated, giving one last glance to Lucius as if asking for permission before he slowly untucked the shirt from the trousers. As soon as he was about to pull it up Lucius stopped him.

"No, wait. We can't. It's wrong."

"Then how are we supposed to get him warm? These clothes are as cold and soaked as the rest. If he remains in them, he will catch cold." Argued Joseph. Having his curiosity yet to be satisfied angered him.

"Help me get him up." Lucius answered tensely. Joseph did as he bade. "There shall be no unmasking of Tristan Hawthorne, at least not today." Muttered Lucius under his breath. Joseph showed his irritation as his curiosity grew. They placed a thin, manageable blanket over him and dragged his clothes off him and pulling a long night shirt over him. After, they placed him under the thick, warmed covers of his bed, as well as placing extra blankets over. Both men waited but he still did not come too. After a while, the shallow and slow breaths became quicker and deeper as he started moving slightly.

Lucius let out a breath of relief, he sank down on his knees and thanked God. Tristan would live.

 _December 30_ _th_

Tristan's eyes fluttered open. Once again he found himself in a situation where he was not aware of his surroundings. Slowly the memories of last night came back to his mind as he remembered being found and then passing out again. He remembered coming to under a mountain of blankets. Joseph and Lucius had been there, helping him out. He had been so weak that he could barely move. Suddenly he was afraid. He wondered if they had taken away the mask and reveal what he had fought so hard to keep secret during all these long months and years. But as his hand grazed his face he felt it, still there, firmly in place. Tristan felt something in his chest as he realized that Lucius must've respected him so much that he had chosen not to look upon his face.

He was alive. He was thankful, and he was alive. The door creaked open and someone stepped into the room, carrying with them a cold breeze, making Tristan realize just how warm it was in his chamber. Christine entered, wearing a simple burgundy damask dress that hugged her figure. Her sleeves had slits along them that allowed her white chemise to be pulled through them, making neat puffs along her arms. She had a white, wool shawl around her shoulders and her long hair had been swiftly put in a bun with intricate braided details. She carried a tray with a cup and a bowl. Booth with content that was steaming hot. As she saw that Tristan was awake she stopped at first. But then, without speaking, she took a few determined steps to his bedside.

She placed the tray on the small table next to the bed while she sat down next to him.

"You are awake." She stated, to his surprise she seemed relieved.

"I am sorry to disappoint you." Tristan joked, his voice was deep and raspy as if he was getting over a sore throat. But Christine did not laugh, she only looked at him intensely, straight on as she let her eyes stare without shame on him. For the first time, it was Tristan that was trapped under her gaze. He hated feeling frail as he lay there, feeling her eyes cut into him.

"If you have enough energy to joke around with me, you have enough energy to get some sustenance in you." She said while moving to help him, trying to be as detached as possible.

"I can sit up myself." His weak voice said. It had lost its rich, deep tremor that always agitated her. When she did not listen Tristan found no strength to object. She put a hand on the back of his neck and another one gliding in under his back to support him. While doing so her face was brought in closer to him to the point where their noses were almost touching. Tristan locked his shadowed eyes with her lavender ones. Even if her hands were not touching his skin he felt them, only a thin layer of fabric and leather separating him from soft, delicate fingers. Christine froze as well, transfixed by his shadowed eyes. She wondered if she would muster the courage to look at them someday. Up to this point, all she had seen were mere glints and glimpses.

She felt yet again his warm breath on her face, a lock of her blond hair fell out from its constricting bun, brushing his leather visage. Slowly but surely his eyes wandered to her full, rosy mouth. Even though in a weak state, all Tristan could think of was to take her lips in his, to savor them, to explore them, just as he wanted to explore _her_. Christine realized what was about to happen, she wanted to stop it, a part of her wanted to release him, to get away. Yet, another part of her, a part she did not know sank deeper into his gaze. She felt a gloved hand brushing the lock away from her face, lingering on her cheek. His thumb brushed across her lips. Christine felt a slight shiver as even now, while weak and bedridden, he held a spell over her.

Suddenly she found her senses again when something in her mind screamed at her. Maybe it was her common sense, trying to get back control from her more basic instincts. Her cheeks turned red as she quickly pulled away from their embrace. But she did not recoil as she had done before. Rather, she only had to distance herself, because she feared what was happening between them. All she wanted from him was to have him take her to Wessport. There was nothing beyond that. She did not welcome nor want any unnecessary feelings now. She had something far more important that occupied her mind: her father's soul and her mission to get his pardon granted. She would see him buried in their family crypt on holy ground if it was the last thing she did.

Tristan let his hand fall to the bed in defeat. He struggled but got up in a sitting position. Christine only pointed at the food while preparing to get off the bed to flee to her own chambers where she could recollect herself.

"I said I could sit up by myself, I did not say I could feed myself." Said he, his voice was not as weak as before as if their intense moment had given him new strength. She did not argue, he was weak, and he needed sustenance, she kept telling herself. After all, she needed to get on his good side, humor him, if he would ever listen to her request. Christine suspected that he had as much disdain for court life as she had. It had been more than clear when he had wanted to leave as soon as the war had been won. She wondered what he had left behind when he had come to Wessport. Maybe there was someone waiting for him in some small village, like a sweetheart. She quickly dismissed that thought.

Christine reached for the spoon and bowl while sitting closer to him. She guided the warm broth to his mouth, feeling satisfied as he drank the rich liquid.

"We thought you would perish last night." She said while giving him another spoonful.

"Surely you were not afraid for me?" He tried to lighten the mood as he saw that it had turned to a more bitter direction. Christine put down the bowl and frowned.

"We all were."

"The inhabitants of this castle have little love for me." He bitterly said, seeing through her attempt to cheer him and get in his good graces. Christine cursed inwardly, he was too perceptive. She started leading the conversation into another direction. She was blunter this time.

"My lord, I will not ignore the way you have been treated by many ever since I got to know you. I know better now." She put down the bowl and turned serious.

"You must understand that in this country, showing weakness is not an option, not even physical weakness." She warned.

"I know." He knew all too well about these matters. He had already been warned of what might come. But it was in that moment that he realized that Christine might get entangled in it too. If someone was really after him, then would they not go after Christine as well?

"No, no you don't. I might seem frail, dull and weak, but I see just as well as anyone. I perceive just as much as anyone, my lord. I have seen many men lose their footing for a moment, stumble in hesitation, and it has been their end." She stared off into the distance. For a moment she was lost in thought, forgetting where she was trying to lead the conversation as she was reminded of the past. "You are a good man, you have honor, you have principles that you stand by. Less can be said for others. This is a country where a wrong word can get you killed."

"You mean like your father?" Christine was surprised. The conversation had taken a direction in her favor.

"My father, God rest his soul, was found guilty of treason with plenty of proof." She hesitated slightly as she continued. Her choice of words was crucial at this moment. She felt a bit bad to resort to convincing Hawthorne in such a weak state. Yet, she did not know when else to do it

"But I now see that he was my father and to me, he always will be." There was a long pause after she had spoken. And she wondered if she had lost him.

"It seems you have changed your mind about him then?"

"I have."

Tristan looked at her more intently now. He knew exactly what she was doing, and he knew what she might want from him.

"I hear Mrs. Vega had him buried at the foot of the castle, on a hill facing the mountains." He commenced slowly. The tables had been turned. Before it had been Christine who had been in charge of the conversation while trying to manipulate the weak man. He was infuriated that this girl thought she could outsmart him, the Lion of the North, the most brilliant mind in battle and strategy since King Philip. He had no intention of letting her get away with it. He just wanted to see how far she would take their conversation.

"Yes. It appears a traitor may not be buried on holy ground. It is a silly Angloan law I believe." She held her breath and hoped that he would take her bait. Thus far, Tristan had taken pity on her. If she could use that in her favor she might convince him into going to Wessport. Somewhere, at the back of her mind, Christine could feel her moral side scream at her that this was wrong. It was wrong to use his weak state for her own benefit. But she pushed it aside. She had vowed to do whatever it took, and she would.

"Well, an audience with the king might be favorable for your late father." Tristan said in a distant tone. He knew that it was what Christine wanted to hear. While she lit up, he snickered. She was so predictable that it hurt his pride. Had she really thought that she would get away with it?

"To travel to Wessport for such a small thing is hardly reason enough." She started as if trying to brush it off.

Suddenly Tristan sat up straighter and she could feel his cold gaze on her. It felt as if the man she had met all those weeks ago in Wessport; the man that inspired groundbreaking fear and earth-shattering tremors in her now sat before her again. The man that she slowly had gotten to know was gone in an instant. All she saw was an emotionless mask with two deep holes where his eyes should be as if it were the face of the devil that stared back at her. It was then that she realized, horrified, that he had seen through her attempt at manipulating him.

She quickly put away the bowl of broth and the spoon. The ceramic fell out of her hands and broke on the carpeted floor with a muted crash as she stepped back. She tried to find words to defend herself. But all she could do was to trip over her consonants and vowels as she slowly backed away, afraid that he would attack.

Even though he was weak, Tristan got out of bed. He did not let the excruciating ache in his body show, nor the sharp, stabbing pain, that went through his head as he stood up. His larger form slowly walked toward Christine's in a menacing manner until he had her trapped in a corner.

"Maybe," he growled deeply, like an animal ready to pounce on its prey, "little Miss Vega should heed her own warning." He neared her and Christine wished the wall would eat her up, just so that she could get away from there. "This is a country where a wrong word can get you _killed_." The words dripped like venom from his mouth as he repeated what she had said mere moment ago.

She didn't say anything and just shut her eyes. A minute ago she had praised him for being a good and honorable man. But now she didn't know what to think anymore. They stood like that, Christine trapped in the corner, not knowing what to do. Tristan loomed over her, angered, having let his emotions get the better of him.

"I am bound for Wessport soon." He teased. His words were cruel as he knew that traveling to Wessport had to be very important to her. But in all honesty, he could only hear Saxton's warning play in his mind. He did not want Christine with him if he was going to the lion's den. She would be safer in Cadherra, even if she didn't like it. The fear in Christine's eyes was suddenly replaced by anger. The flames turned her lavender eyes into a raging firestorm as she let her emotions rule over her. She worked up the courage to speak.

"Take me with you." She demanded, growing more confident and standing tall and defiant.

"I will not, not now, not ever." He growled again. Tristan felt his head suddenly turn light, and he knew that he could not keep up pretenses much longer. He did not want to seem weak in front of her because then she would only insist more. Although he welcomed this headstrong new Christine, he felt that her timing was a bit inopportune. He had to fight hard to control his body from collapsing on him.

"Get out." He said through his teeth and sent a murdering glance her way. It was the only way to get her to leave as quickly as possible. Christine did not think twice and headed to the door. But to his surprise, she turned around in the last second.

"This is not over." She said haughtily and closed the door behind her with a loud bang. As soon as she was out Tristan collapsed from fatigue next to the broken bowl and spilled broth.

 _January 4_ _th_ _1520_

It came as a surprise to many when Tristan had declared that he was going to Wessport within the month. Both Joseph and Lucius had argued that he should rest a few more days in bed until he started preparing for the long journey ahead. They had entered the new year on bad terms already. The relationship that had been blossoming between Tristan and Christine seemed broken now. But while she had been deathly afraid of him before, she only ignored his presence now. As soon as word had gotten to her that he was preparing a trip to Wessport without her, she had ignored it. She had sent her own servants to prepare for her own trip. If he would not take her with him, she would go by herself. But word soon reached Tristan's ears and he explicitly forbade the young woman from going. She had argued that she was not yet his wife and that he held no power over her. But he had only ignored her saying that as the Count of Cadherra, he could do as he pleased. His arrogance only served to further distance them and so, as the days passed, she realized that she could do nothing. But Christine would not give up.

It was afternoon when a courier had arrived at Adelton Hall with mail from Coldwick. The small man had requested to speak directly to the lord of the castle. Mrs. Hammond had shown him to Tristan's quarters, where he was sitting in his study. He was in his black, marabou trimmed coat. He sat at his desk, reading and signing various documents. He was still slightly weak from his ordeal in the woods, but he never let it show. The courier felt his tongue go numb as he saw the imposing man. He looked like an apparition from a painting, come to life to take his soul. He had heard of Tristan Hawthorne before, but seeing the man for himself was something else indeed. Yet, while the mysterious man before him inspired fear, he also inspired awe. He was glad that he would never have to meet the man on the battlefield, or in any field requiring battle, fighting or talking. Instead, he just gave him the letter as he had been instructed to do.

Mrs. Hammond had to escort the courier out herself as the man had stood stupefied after having delivered the letter. She felt bad for him. She knew the reaction her master could have on people. She wondered if the poor courier would even have managed to sustain a conversation with his lordship without falling flat on his back.

Tristan had not paid them any notice. He had his mind elsewhere. He was putting together a plan for what he had to do when arriving at Wessport. First, he had to invent a cover. Why was he traveling there now? What was he doing there and how long did he intend to stay there? He knew that these questions would be demanded by him over and over again. He was also obliged to inform the king of his arrival in town, something he was not entirely pleased with. After, he had to collect the information he had gotten from Allan Moore and Henry Saxton. He had to find out how much was true and how much was false. He knew one thing, he needed to find John Fletcher and he needed to speak with Lord Athar. His quest to find out why he had been put under surveillance would take him some time, he figured.

What worried him most of all, was that he might stumble on something larger than he had expected. He knew that there was a larger plot here than just keeping an eye on him. He wondered if the group that was monitoring him were conspirators and traitors to the crown by their own merit. Or perhaps, the most unfortunate case could also be that it was King James himself who had put spies on him. If that were the case, then he would benefit from leaving Angloa as soon as possible. A suspecting king in these times never resulted in any good.

As he finished revising his last document he looked at the letter the courier had given him. When he saw the unbroken, royal seal on the bone white paper, he felt his heart skip a beat. He did not know how long he sat there, staring at that letter. He did not want to open it. Tristan felt Saxton's taunting voice at the back of his mind. If the contents of the letter were anything close to what he expected, the bandit would have been right all along. His gloved hand reached for the simple piece of paper. He was struck by how ironic the whole situation was. A simple piece of paper with some scribbled ink on it could decide a man's destiny. In this moment he did feel as if his destiny was slowly being rewritten. He broke the seal, feeling his pulse quicken and his face flush behind the mask. His jaw got tense as he slowly opened the letter.

 _To his lordship, Tristan Hawthorne, Count of Cadherra._

 _It is with our utmost respect that we bid thee welcome to attend the capital of Wessport, by request of his gracious majesty, King James I of Angloa. We inform your lordship that your presence and that of your wife, Lady Christine Hawthorne, is required by personal request of his majesty. Both of you are awaited at the turn of the first month of the new year. Information as to why his lordship and his wife are required to be present at court is non-disclosable. Your presence at court is awaited._

 _And thus, I bid your lordship a heartily farewell._

 _From the high Council of the royal secretary, Roger Ascham._

 _Signed, his gracious majesty, James I Fell, king of Angloa._

Tristan reread the letter at least five times until he put it away in defeat. He was expected to attend court. Everything he had feared, those sleepless nights, had led to this. The battle, it seemed, was not over for him. But worse yet was that Christine was expected to come. It seemed, that whatever action he had taken to keep her within the safe walls of Adelton had failed. He would not show the letter to anyone, nor would he tell her of what he had read. But his heart sank deep within his chest as he read, in small lettering, at the bottom of the elegant paper;

 _A copy of this correspondence has been delivered to Lady Christine Hawthorne as well._

He did not know the world of court as well as the world of the battlefield that much he could confess to himself. Therefore, he was worried that he did not have the means to protect Christine. He also expected that she would not receive a warm welcome there. He had always known the Wessport court to be hostile. He only hoped that it would not be too hostile toward her. He already knew that her reputation would be tainted. He had yet to marry her, and arriving at court, still unmarried would surely rise speculations as to why the matrimony had not been sealed yet. He worried even more; the letter clearly stated that they thought them married. He sighed deeply. Everything would change now, he had to be even more cautious while in Wessport.

Tristan rose from his seat, his body still slightly weak from almost perishing in the snowstorm. He walked slowly to the door and opened it. Outside stood a footman, always on duty, if Tristan had a request, so he could fetch him someone. Tristan asked for George. The plans for his upcoming trip would have to be altered now.


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note: I wish to thank those who read the last chapter and left a review. I would also like to thank the guest reviewer who pointed out a minor historical fault in my second chapter. It will be dealt with soon. I am always very grateful to those who help me with historical accuracy as I am by no means an expert when it comes to renaissance history haha. But I try. I have not posted a chapter the past few weeks as I have had finals and had to give my time to complete them. I have some finals in January as well but that should not stop me from posting over the holidays. I hope you are enjoying your holidays you're your family wherever you are.**

A TALE OF ANGLOA

 _Chapter 10_

 _January 11_ _th_ _1520, Cadherra_

It was an eerie morning as the robust sleigh set out for Coldwick. The usual elegant carriage was tucked away behind the stables as there was no way it could travel through the thick snow.

The moon glowed faintly in a pale yellow as the travelers descended into the valley and toward the flatlands in the distance. Fog had descended from the mountains yet again. It wasn't until they emerged from it that they, at last, saw the bright, starry sky, giving way to the bright yellow orb that slowly ascended in the distance. Christine felt her heart skip a beat as the dark, mysterious night around her gave way to the light of day. The dark blue sky turned into a lighter purple as it transformed slowly. Then it changed into a myriad of oranges, reds, and pinks. The strong horses dragged the sleigh in a fast pace and she continuously twisted and turned in her seat to see everything around her. As did Maria, who had never been to Cadherra before.

Tristan and Joseph sat facing Christine and Maria. The fact that Christine's presence was demanded at court should've made her soar up in the clouds. But her thoughts found themselves occupied by the magical landscape around her. Neither she nor Maria noticed the way Tristan looked at her. For even if he was still sour with her, the look in his eyes spoke differently.

Christine wondered why the king wanted her to come. She knew Tristan had not liked it. She had received a letter from the king's secretary as well. Nevertheless, Tristan had felt it necessary to tell her himself.

The young woman had urged her mother to stay back and take charge of the household in Adelton together with Mrs. Hammond. She did not want Lady Amelia to go through the ordeal of being at court once more. Christine knew the older woman had suffered last time from the malicious glances, the cold shoulders from previously close friends, and the constant mockery they had received. Christine had only taken Maria with her, knowing her maid would always serve her loyally. It was the only person she trusted to the fullest in that sleigh.

Tristan told Lucius to stay behind. He needed someone he could trust to stay outside of Wessport for a while. Lucius was tasked with watching over Adelton Hall and Alan Moore. If he ever needed him he had instructed his friend to turn over the spy to Saxton. Tristan suspected that he would need him soon, though. But he said that they would only keep in contact by writing, in code. He had instead asked Joseph to travel with him. He trusted the younger man, but he knew he could not give him the same burdensome tasks that he could give to Lucius. Yet, he wanted someone with him he could trust on the inside.

 _January 24_ _th_ _, Wessport_

James Fell ate another grape and downed it with a big gulp of Madeira as he settled further back in his comfortable, velvet cushioned chair. The monarch sighed at his ever growing headache as one of his advisors recited the list of matters that needed his attentions.

"Furthermore," the rotund man continued, his voice a high pitched one, sweat dribbling from his protruding forehead from having stood up for so long. "We have to choose our allies now more than ever." James reached for more wine, but the otherwise calming liquid tasted vile and bitter in his mouth. He felt that the weight on his shoulders had only grown heavier as the war with England had ended.

Lord Athar, Lord Braun, Lord Alistair and a handful of other men were in the room as well. They had their own wine to sip, some downed the alcohol to ease the stress they were feeling of having to help the king run the recovering country.

"I believe we do not need allies at the moment. The peace treaty with England still stands, I hope? And as for the mainland, let us not get too involved in those issues." Said James as his jaw tensed. He wanted nothing to do with the mainland continent. It was a war-torn place full of powerful, potential enemies that could lift a finger and have his island in a matter of months.

Lord Athar cleared his voice as he put his own cup of Madeira down. "You majesty will forgive my bluntness, but look at what happened to the Italian peninsula. It is a divided territory with Spain claiming the south and France battling for the remaining lands in the north. We can no longer ignore that beyond our borders, to the east, there are some powerful nations that are now switching their gaze toward Angloa." A general silence fell over the room. The high council of his majesty consisted mainly of older men who had known Angloa in her youth as she flourished under King Philip. They had never known another threat of invasion except one from the English.

"And what about this new craze that is spreading across the mainland, with this mad man preaching another form of Christianity?" Asked another man. It was Cardinal Thorpe, the ordained Bishop of the Catholic Church in Angloa and appointed cardinal by Pope Leo the Tenth. The man wore the characteristic red robes of a cardinal and the red hat with a rather disgusted look on his face. Cardinal Thorpe did not seem too bothered about the political ramifications that Angloa was now facing as winner over the English. Rather, he seemed much more disturbed over the emerging new take on Christianity.

"You mean this German fellow? Oh, I am sure his voice will soon fade away as the masses realize that there is no deviation from the true faith." Said Alistair, the others wishing for him to just shut his mouth. Cardinal Thorpe took great offense at what had been said.

"He already has the attention of several countries and if his ideas were to spread to Angloa we would see an even bigger downfall here. The whole of Europe is breaking apart now more than ever!" He exclaimed, standing up in a furry as he huffed and puffed while looking around the room. No one dared question the Cardinal, as that would be questioning the church itself.

"We all know how the church enjoys its privileges, Cardinal Thorpe. But what matters now is that Angloa must unify, now more than ever. We are weak, Europe knows this. We could not stand another invasion." Came the burly voice of an old man. It was General Fawkes, the most decorated general in Angloa. His military rank greatly outranked General Hawthorne as a grand general and first marshal of Angloa, protector of the land. The man was old, his once dark hair and goatee now gray and dull. But his full head of hair, his neatly trimmed goatee and beard, together with his fit form and charming smile still secured him a favored place amongst the ladies of court. Even though he was well over sixty. He had the stamina of a bear and a great hunger for battle. Although he had never been as good at strategy or at battle as Hawthorne, he was still more experienced. His input in war had been greatly appreciated by the younger general. Fawkes respected Hawthorne for it.

"What will Spain and France do, when they are too occupied nagging at each other all the time?" Said Alistair haughtily. The man was a fool, many wondered what he did in the council in the first place, for his input and opinions were never wanted.

"Spain, my dear boy," began Lord Athar impatiently, "Is now the most powerful country in Europe after King Charles received the crown of the Holy Roman Empire. He has the backing of Rome and his kingdom does nothing but grow ever since it discovered the riches of the New World." There was a slight pause before he continued as it was clear that all men in the room were now clearly listening to what he was saying.

"As for France, England, the Ottomans, Russia, Scandinavia: they all have one thing in common. They are a threat to us. Until now, Angloa has enjoyed seclusion. Mainly because we were an insignificant English colony, an island populated by farmers who did nothing but obey the English crown. But ever since the independence, and now, with our defeat over the English, we have shown that we are a strong nation. We have caught the eye of the other sovereigns. If we do not act smartly in our diplomacies, we might very well see another war."

"That is why Angloa needs to come together now, more than ever," James said as he put down the cup and got up from his chair. "We are entering a new era! This is the time, whether you like it or not, where the lords of the land must step aside and let their king do what he was born to do." Lord Braun got up, seemingly offended.

"So you ask the lords of this country to what? Give up our lands to you?" He sneered, his face twisting into a frown as others joined in. James only chuckled.

"You all want me to unify Angloa once and for all into this strong, independent nation. To do that, we must step into the sixteenth century, Lord Braun. How can I, as a king, govern my country when I have disagreeing lords left and right? If you want to ensure Angloa's well-being, then you must hand the reins over to me." He said, sitting down seemingly satisfied with what he had said. Athar sighed, for he knew that what the king said was right, but he also knew it would take much for the other lords in Angloa to accept it. And how could they? He was sure that some would rebel against James. The last thing Angloa needed now was a civil war.

Another man stood up, he was frowning as deeply as Lord Braun, but where the other knew to keep silent, this man spoke truthfully. "By what right do you stand there and ask this of us, the ones that have kept Angloa on her feet by paying out of our own pockets? By what right do you demand that we give up our power to you?" King James noted the outburst from the other man; Otto Savoie.

"By right of birth and thus, by right of God." He simply said, challenging Savoie to further question him, to give him a reason to throw him in a dungeon and charge him with treason. Speaking out so brashly against the king could be considered as such. When no one said anything James continued.

"We will have this discussion later. But you all know where my thoughts rest. To stop this threat, we must get over our own differences and unite, now more than ever." He finished. Signaling the men in the room to leave. They gladly did so, clearly displeased and James was sure that the subject of their discussion would soon float through the corridors of the palace. Athar was the only one that remained.

"Perhaps it was too brash, your majesty, to make public such opinions so quickly?" Athar asked. He was worried as well. He understood why the king wanted to unify the land and to centralize the power, but it would be a hard and arduous task.

"I have already sent for the lords from the dukedoms and counties of the country to come here by the end of the month. Most have arrived. I want one and all to be present as I unveil this idea, it is fair. And I think most will be very willing in complying with me as, after all, any hesitation would be considered an act of treason. A threat of war with the mainland is another good reason for unifying this land as well." James said. He knew there would be resentment against him.

"How can you be sure that there will be no rebellion against you, your majesty?" The wrinkles in Athar's face only deepened as his worry grew.

"You know why I'm doing this, Athar." James let his worry shine through for the first time that day. "I must know who has been plotting against me all this time. This new petition of mine will be sure to bring out the worst of the lot. I am sure that there are those amongst my lords that are in on the plot."

"That is why I urged your majesty one year ago to keep Charles Vega alive. He could have given us more information." Athar said solemnly, thinking back to his old friend.

"Charles Vega was dangerous, Athar. I had to execute him. I just hope that leaving his daughter and wife alive was not a mistake." Came the solemn, and tired voice of the king who sat down with a heavy sigh in his chair, staring at the half empty crystal glass containing the red liquid.

"Have you called on Tristan Hawthorne to come here then as well?" Athar asked.

"Of course. All that have been called, do not know why. I have prepared a document they must sign, giving up their personal armies to the crown. We must strive to be a powerful country if we wish to survive for the future."

 _January 25_ _th_

Christine had not been in her family's townhouse for years. They had arrived at the Wessport harbor early that morning. The mist that gathered around the port had almost made it impossible for the ship to find its path and dock. Instead, Christine, Maria, Joseph and Tristan had to descend into one of the smaller rowboats and row to shore with a sailor. Wessport was not as cold as Cadherra, to her surprise. But the waters were still cold enough to have a thin layer of ice on the surface. Every so often, the sailor had to stop and hack away at the black ice so they might reach the docks. They eventually did. She did not complain as they stood there, shivering in their coats as they waited for a carriage to arrive and take them to the inner circle of the city.

She felt a sense of urgency as the carriage moved through the quiet streets of the capital. It was still too early for the city to come to life. The lower circle stank of sewage that had frozen during the night. She looked out and saw the narrow houses with steam puffing out of the chimneys. Just as Adelton, the inhabitants of the city did all they could to keep warm by throwing wood on the fire.

Soon they reached the inner circle of the city and eventually, their destination. Christine felt her heart swell in her chest as she saw her family's townhouse for the first time in eight years. Her arrival turned bittersweet. It was exactly as she remembered it. On the outside, nothing had changed. It stood as a separate building in one of the many round squares that dotted the inner circle. Its structure was that of an extended rectangle with two towers on either side. Each tower had a pointed roof in dark blue tile. The main building had a raised roof in blue tile as well and it bore two windows, shining some light into the attic of the house. The main building was shorter than the towers that guarded the entrance, probably only three levels. As the house was medieval, the windows were quite small and it did not let much light in. However, the back of the house had been renovated after a severe fire fifty years earlier and so, the windows there were taller and bigger, letting in more light to what was the main hall of the mansion. The entrance was a tall, roman arch with a grand mahogany door, reinforced with iron strips, running across it in an intricate design. Above the door rested the crest of the Count of Cadherra, now Tristan's coat of arms.

Some servants were there to usher them in and as they walked in through the small covered courtyard. A big marble staircase led to the next level, a timid servant girl turned to her, diverting her eyes from Tristan as she spoke.

"Your chambers have already been prepared for you, my lords, my lady." She said while she curtsied. "Would you like to venture to them for rest or would you like some refreshments in the grand hall, or in the parlor perhaps?" She asked, keeping her eyes on the floor and her hands folded in front of her. Christine understood the poor girl, and saw, to some degree, herself in the younger woman. She remembered how she had also behaved that way when she had first met Lord Hawthorne.

"Take us to our chambers," Tristan said. His tired and tense state was evident in his voice and it reflected how all of them felt after such a long and tedious journey. The maid curtsied again and took them up the staircase and through a labyrinth of corridors and rooms. Christine recognized none of the rooms. It seemed as if all of them had been refurbished since she had last come. She understood then that her mother must have sold most of the furniture to keep them fed and living in relative comfort. But she was sad to see that the chairs, paintings, tapestries and carpets she had gotten so used to were gone now. It only made the house more alien to her.

Joseph was soon shown to his rooms on the east end of the second floor. Maria was taken care of by another passing servant, who was to show her the servant's quarters, on the first floor, next to the kitchen. Christine, Tristan, and the maid continued walking up another elegant staircase in uncomfortable silence. The maid stopped abruptly in front of an elegant oak door and turned around, announcing another chamber. Christine was so caught up in her thoughts and plans of how to ask her favor of the king that she bumped into Tristan. He did not even turn around to scold her but kept his attention on the door. He longed for the bed that lay on the other side, inviting him to come sleep in it.

"Here are your lordship's and ladyship's bedchamber." Said the maid as she unlocked the door and opened it for them. She quickly walked into the room and opened the drapes to let in some light of the rising sun. She lit a few of the candles in the silver candleholders.

The room was smaller than she remembered. Its windows were horizontal rectangles with a thick glass that let little light in. To one side there was a vast four post bed with a roof and curtains in various colors of greens, swirling in a damask pattern. They could be drawn around the bed, offering more protection from the cold and from prying eyes. At the foot of the bed there lay an elegant chest containing the linens. Her father's desk and her mother's old, white dressing table were still there, kept intact as time had drifted by. There were two other doors in the room. Christine already knew where they led to. One was the door to the walk-in wardrobe and the other, right next to the bed, led to her father's old study.

The maid turned around, expecting them to enter and settle in for the morning. Tristan stepped forward first, looking around curiously at the elegant room. It had been furnished in the Italian style as was quite the fashion lately. Christine realized then that the servants of the house thought them both married. But before she could say anything, Tristan spoke.

"This will not do." His voice was low and grave. The maid jumped in her place as she heard the irritation behind the words. Tristan turned around, slowly, placing all of his attention on the poor girl that pressed against the wall.

"No, this will not do at all. Miss Vega needs her own chamber." He simply said as if anything else was unimaginable.

"My lord?" Squeaked the young maid as she fiddled with her hands. But before he could say anything else, Christine stepped in, deciding that she could not let the girl expire from the fear she was going through.

"What his lordship is trying to say," she began, softly. Her voice broke through the dark aura that had emerged in the room. It sounded as the voice of reason to the maid's ears. She immediately placed all her attention on the young woman, while still feeling Tristan's eyes drill holes into her. "We are not yet married, so it would be improper for us to share a room, much more so a bed." She said, blushing faintly and pointing toward the vast bed that was clearly meant for them both.

"Oh, we were informed that there had been a union between my lord and my lady. I deeply apologize." Squealed the maid as she turned redder than Christine. Tristan only muttered something neither of them could hear. Christine understood how uncomfortable the maid must be feeling and asked to be shown to another room instead. The young woman did not hesitate, for she would do anything to get away from his lordship. And so Tristan and Christine parted ways for the first time since the start of their trip.

* * *

It was nighttime before the three of them reunited in the dining hall. They sat at one end of a table, too big for three people, eating away in silence. Christine had nothing to say to either of them. Every time Joseph tried to start a conversation with her she disregarded him. She was still angry with him and wanted him to suffer a bit longer before she accepted the countless apologies he had offered during their journey. Tristan did not speak at all, he just sat there tense and thoughtful. Neither Joseph nor Christine interrupted his train of thought. He was planning what to do the coming days. Tristan knew he had to investigate John Fletcher, the man that Alan Moore had mentioned several times.

The masked man glanced at Christine as she cut her meat into tiny pieces, focusing too much on the task in order not to have to look up and meet their glances. She was dressed in a dull cotton brown gown. The square neck was lined in black rabbit fur and the sleeves sliced to allow her white undersleeves to be pulled through and puffed. A fashion that had arrived from Spain and Italy.

Tristan was still hurt by the way she had used him. He did not know if he could trust her again because he never knew if her approaches and kind inclination to him had been real. Had she been acting during the Christmas dinner or had her reactions been true? It was something he kept asking himself the whole journey. He knew he had scared her when he had unmasked her. But the initial fright seemed to have died away and now she seemed distant from him. He knew that their relationship must have never been meant to be for there were too many obstacles in their way since the beginning. He had not even thought of marrying her ever since arriving at Adelton. But now he understood the implications of a lack in marriage. Their union had been expected upon arrival at the capital which meant that it was expected at court as well. He did not even wish to think about the subject, but there was a choice to be made. Should he marry Christine Vega, for her own benefit, or should he cast her aside? He was already Count, so what did it matter? But Tristan already knew the answer deep down. He knew he could never leave her to the wolves that inhabited the world. But he also knew that her being with him now, more than ever, was dangerous. A long sigh escaped him and both of his table companions seemed startled.

"My lord… er, Tristan?" Asked Joseph slowly, getting used to using Tristan's first name. It was something the masked man had insisted on during the journey. He was tired of hearing "my lord" all the time.

Tristan rested against the back of his chair and looked at them. He took a good and long look at Christine who ignored his eyes, even though she could feel his intense stare on her. He snickered inwardly. He had never known her to be this proud and thickheaded before.

"Joseph, come with me. I have a favor to ask of you." Tristan finally said. His rich, strong voice boomed through the room and sent some of the maids jumping in their place, taken by surprise. Christine kept ignoring them and cut away at the metal plate. Joseph stared at Christine, wanting to say something but one look from Tristan made him go silent and follow the masked man. Tristan was handed a candleholder with a lit wax candle in it to be able to find his way through the dark and gloomy passageways of the mansion. It was not as light and elegant as Adelton. The mansion was heavy in some sorts. The weight of generations and history clung to the stone walls and the smell of time and forgot wafted through the rooms. Its stone floors had all been reinforced with elegant mahogany boards, lining the passageways. But even the dark wood did little in lightening up the medieval layout. Tristan and Joseph felt themselves transported back to a simpler time as they graced the many corridors. In the distance, they could almost imagine the chant of a church choir. Monks singing a melancholy tune of old, as they dwelled deeper into the building, deeper into the past and its turbulent history.

Tristan had brought Joseph to the most secluded area in the whole building: its foundations, its cellar. It stood on a foundation that had its roots in the Roman Empire. The light lit up the vast room and the low roof pressed down on them. In some corners, elegant roman pillars could be seen, dirty and in rubbles, as forgotten as the empire that had made them. However, the last few decades had seen a reemergence of the ancient civilizations and such relics of the past could bring him a pretty penny. But Tristan stared at the lifeless marble stone, feeling that this was where it belonged, in its original place. In one corner, ceramics, mosaics and even pieces of marble statues had been excavated and left there to gather dust. Joseph neared one piece of marble, almost whole except for a missing hand, its features and torso dulled through time. It was muscular, bent to the side as if casting something. He flushed as he saw that the piece of art was naked. But he marveled at the very lifelike body before him.

"There is something of great importance that I must ask of you," Tristan said, turning around, facing a curious Joseph who kept going through the ancient artifacts. He put them down and stepped further into the light, meeting Tristan solemnly.

"You want me to kill someone for you?" He asked, deadly serious, without blinking. Tristan was surprised, but he did not let it show. He never knew Joseph would be willing to kill for him.

"No." He answered gravely. "But one day it might come to that."

"I understand."

"I want you to follow someone around without him noticing you." Tristan commenced. "I only know his name, the rest is up to you. I want to know everything: where he goes, where he's coming from, who he speaks with, who approaches him, everything."

"Consider it done," Joseph said, no questions were asked. He did not question Tristan anymore at this point because he knew to trust him. But he could not ignore that he was curious. He understood that it must be a grave matter if Tristan had brought him to such a secluded space, away from prying eyes and curious ears.

As Tristan and Joseph emerged from the depths of the cellar, a footman came to him, it seemed as if he had been looking for him for quite some time.

"My lord," he said and bowed deeply. "This just arrived for you." He handed him a letter and even before opening it, Tristan knew who it was from. He took the crisp, white paper, neatly folded and sealed with the royal seal. Tristan went straight to his chambers, disregarding both Joseph and the footman. The only thing that preoccupied him was the letter. He had barely entered his room when he broke the seal and ripped the paper open. He only had to read it once, for it was short and to the point.

The message was an invitation for him to come meet the king in two days' time. It said nothing more. It did not mention the reason for his summons nor who else would be there. Tristan threw the paper aside. He had two days to plan for this meeting, two days to get ready for whatever might be thrown his way.

 _January 26_ _th_

Christine felt the rays of the sunshine on her closed eyelids. She could hear the lively city outside of her room as she slowly awoke. She had been shown to her childhood chamber, something that had also changed since her last visit. It was more modestly furnished than before. It only housed a large bed, two wardrobes in painted oak, a dressing table where Maria could do her different hairstyles and a coffer for the linens.

The young woman could hear carts and horses outside of her window as it faced one of the main streets of the upper circle. She stepped out of her bed and felt the hairs on her skin rise as she realized how cold it was. The covers had provided her with warmth and protection during the night and her modest chemise did little in keeping her temperature up. Her feet found the slippers in the dull light and she reached for the tall, thick windows, pulling the heavy maroon drapes aside, letting all the light bright up her room.

From where she stood she could see the snowy street and rooftops bellow here. The cathedral bells sounded in the distance as fine carriages and merchants coaches pulsed through the snowy streets. This was the upper circle, there were restrictions on how many merchant stalls were permitted, which made the streets emptier to her. Yet, she could see the middle and lower circle in the distance, puffy clouds of white rising from the thin chimneys and climbing toward the endless blue sky. The winter morning was crisp, but not as cold as in Cadherra. The fresh scent of bread wafted through the air. She wondered if it came from one of the bakers of the upper or middle circle, or if it was the mansion's own ovens at work that morning. It was strange for her to be there, in that room. Last time she had been in Wessport she had only been allowed to live in one of their homes in the middle circle. It was a clear step up from the hut they had been living in previously. King James had declared it living quarters fit for them to live in. Christine had declared it a prison, falling apart and ridden with rats. The piece of land he had allowed them to keep in Cadherra was barely worth anything and so they had scraped by as best as they could then.

A knock sounded on the door and before Christine went to open it, Maria stepped inside with another woman. Christine deemed it to be the housekeeper of the mansion. She was nothing like Mrs. Hammond, not as endearing or sweet. This was a tall, thin and quiet woman who looked as if she had her heads up in the clouds. Her brown hair was tied loosely at the nape of her neck, a braid placed across the crown of her head like a diadem. She wore a dark blue dress with a black apron instead of a white one, like the maids of Adelton Hall.

"Miss, Mrs. Rochester and I are here to help you select gowns for the coming social season." Said Maria timidly, as she stared at the woman by her side. Christine frowned slightly. Their presence was most unexpected and she wondered if it was because the housekeeper was curious to get to know her better. She had no intention of going to balls and events. She knew she was not welcomed and she did not feel much like receiving threatening and pressing glares from those around her.

"I never asked for such a thing." She said, while going over to the wardrobe. She opened it and looked through her small ensemble of clothes. "What I have here will be fine." She showed, closing it again.

"If I might miss," came the calming voice of Mrs. Rochester. "Several invitations to different balls and receptions have already arrived. Being the fiancée of a count has its duties." The housekeeper said firmly, making Christine's jaw clench tightly. She understood then that this was an opportunity to get closer to the king. She was sure he would attend some of the gatherings. It might be enough to get her close to him just for a few minutes to beg a favor of him. But attending such festivities and social events would mean that she must once again put herself in the eye of the public. Christine knew of many malicious men and women at court who would stoop to the lowest of levels to see her humiliated. The fact that she had yet to be married to Tristan Hawthorne would serve as a conversation starter, not to mention the rumors that would stem from it.

"What seamstress would even think to come to this household, in fear of her reputation?" Asked Christine, turning her back to them to watch the horses, carriages and people drifting by outside of her room. Mrs. Rochester walked to her wardrobe and opened it once more, inspecting the dresses it held.

"I am glad you asked," she said, very chipper. She wrinkled her nose at most of them. None of Christine's simpler dresses pleased her.

"No, no, this will not do at all. Most of this is out of season, or awfully boring my dear." She continued as she inspected the gowns. The only one she seemed to approve of was Christine's mint gown lined in light brown fur. But other than that, she disregarded the rest. She turned around dramatically, Maria rolled her eyes at the expressive woman in front of her.

"I think signora Coticelli would be more than helpful in getting you a new wardrobe for the season." Said the brunette as she kept going through the dresses.

"An Italian seamstress?" Asked Christine surprised.

"But of course. It is nonsense that the seamstresses should all be French when it is _la moda italiana_ that is in fashion, anyway. They all only copy the fashions of Venice, Florence, and Sienna and so on. Signora Coticelli is actually from there."

"What is the downside?" Asked Christine.

"Well, she has not made a name for herself yet."

"Then how come you know of her."

"She is my close friend. Give her a chance and she might surprise you. You know already, my lady, that few renowned seamstresses might take any of your requests. You are already late in requesting gowns be made for you for this season." Christine stepped back from the window and the light, backing deeper into her room. She would do whatever it took, she had promised as much to herself.

"Have her brought here as soon as possible." Came Christine's determined voice.

* * *

While Joseph was nowhere to be seen, Tristan himself had taken to search the middle and lower circle of the city for Sofia. He had donned a disguise, placing bandages around his arms and face, implying that severe, fresh burns, hid under those white linens.

Tristan stalked the streets, his hood up and torn clothes hugging his lean physique, bending over as to not appear as tall. He felt free, now that he was someone else, now that he was not Tristan Hawthorne. He had not felt this free since Constantinople when no one had batted an eye at his peculiar way of dressing. It was, after all, a city where west met east, and its inhabitants were more than used to peculiarities. He remembered the big buildings with splendid dome-shaped roofs, the oriental stalls, and markets, exotic smells, music. Enchanting women walked its streets, looking at glinting jewelry, elaborate fabrics, and colorful spices that the merchants fervently tried to sell. He remembered how Sofia had bargained their way through the enigmatic and pulsating city. It had charm; it had character, and he found it elegant. Wessport was different. As his heavy feet grazed the streets, he could not help but find it rustic. It was like any other English or north European city. He felt as if he had traveled back in time. Its infrastructure needed bettering, its streets needed repairing. The sewage system was almost nonexistent. The many wonders that the Romans had left behind felt completely ignored. Even if they were slowly rediscovering the wonders of ancient Rome and Greece, people leaned on what they knew, the way of life they were used to. He ducked as a woman warned and threw a bucket of a mysterious, brown liquid he rather not inspect closer. As he descended into the lower ring, he got to see the poverty of not just the city, but of Angloa.

Tristan had barely been to Hayes, but he could only imagine that its outskirts were similar. Even though the last decades had seen a rebirth, a renaissance, as the French so eloquently put it, the lives of the bourgeoisie and lower classes stayed the same. Nothing had changed for them. It was something he would indeed take up with the king. For how could a country achieve anything when its people all lived like the simplest of peasants?

His feet knew where to take him and soon he stopped in front of Sofia's old house. It looked dark, and the door seemed completely bolted shut. He peered in through the window and found what he had expected all this time, nothing. There was no sign of her. Tristan felt the empty hole she had left in his heart start growing again. He would never confess it to her, but he cared for her. Instead, he stalked home, up to the middle circle. There, in an alleyway, he changed out of his torn rags and bandages and quickly into a doublet, a leather jerkin, a fine cape, his mask, and gloves. He passed into the upper circle unnoticed as the tired guards did not even bother to check the identity of the hooded man. He snickered at the poor security within the walls. It was something else he would take up with not just his majesty, but with General Fawkes and the Captain of the guard as well.

It was afternoon when he arrived at his estate. When in the courtyard, Tristan noticed a rather peculiar horse tied to the long pole that was used for visitant's horses. The mare held her head high although she was well into her winter years. Her caramel coat was dull and ridden with white hairs, taking further from its luster. Her white mane was a mess and pointing in all directions. The saddle, if you could even call that thing a saddle, looked like it was at least half a century old and of military grade. He walked in, shedding his cape and handing it to the first footman he saw.

"Who is visiting?" He asked without pause. He knew well of his own reputation within the walled city. He had not yet made acquaintances and those few he knew would call on him first. Yet, he thought back to that horse, those few men he knew did not have such horses in their stables.

"Signora Antonia Coticelli, my lord." Said the footman, his mouth in a thin line. He seemed tired, distressed at being in close proximities to his lordship.

"Who?" Started Tristan, confused at the mention of the name. He did not know of any Italian here in Wessport. He wondered if it was an acquaintance of Christine's.

"Tis' best if you saw for yourself, my lord." Said the footman, walking toward the corridor on the upper floor that held the parlor, showing the way. As Tristan reached the corridor, he could see several maids stand gathered by the door leading to the vast room, some peering in. Tristan neared, and they quickly stepped aside, giving him a deep curtsy. At first, he gave them a severe look, and they bent under that stern gaze of his, quickly dispersing like rats, making sure as to not get in his way. Tristan suddenly heard a squeal of delight that made him jump in place. He looked at the door, it was slightly opened, probably by the maids that had been spying on whatever took place inside. He knew he shouldn't, but he inched closer, as stealthily as he could, and casually peered inside.

"Si, si, this will be perfect, this will be amazing! I will create a masterpiece!" Came the brash voice of a determined woman. She stood in the middle of the room, looking at someone in the room he could not see. The parlor was very grand and had been completely refurbished and brought into the sixteenth century. Its floors were carpeted in rich Persian carpets. One of the walls was lined with Venetian glass and it had a sitting space, a space for musical instruments and even a small stage, where minor concerts could be held. Colors of deep red, gold, deep maroons and dusty beige coursed through the room, muting the other colors that were present in the tapestries and portraits that lined the walls. The centerpiece of the room, however, was the portrait of King Philip of Angloa, magnificent and grand for all to see. It was common to see a portrait of the late king in most Angloan households.

"You will be the envy of every ball, signorina!" She said dramatically. It was a petite woman with bright red hair, bearing streaks of silver. It was so bright that it seemed to shriek at whoever watched it. She wore an elaborate gown that screamed of bad taste. The bright green sleeves had a vast number of slits in them, puffed to the maximum, making her arms balloon out. The skirt was more like different strips of different kinds of fabrics that had been sewn together, also ballooning out, making the short woman look larger than she was. Christine watched wide eyed, wondering what she had gotten herself into.

"I understand, Mrs. Coticelli, but I only wish for some simple dresses for the season."

"No no, _Signora_ Coticelli!" She exclaimed, with a pointed finger. Christine flinched.

"Well, singora Coticelli, I have no wish to draw that much attention to myself." She stated firmly. Antonia took a step back, her hand reaching for her heart as she heard the words. She seemed insulted and her black eyes widened in shock.

"I once worked for the Medici, the Borgias'! I know what works, I know my art!" She exclaimed, acting as if she were performing a theatrical piece for an audience. But then she calmed down and walked out of Tristan's view. She reached for Christine who stood elevated, being fitted for several gowns.

"Signorina", she said, gathering her wits, looking straight into Christine's lavender eyes with compassion. "I do not know the reason you hesitate so, you are beautiful, you could reach such a high potential if you would only let me help you." She spoke, her Italian accent making her sentence jump all over the place, her deep, brash voice clawing the words. Tristan finally stepped in to see what all the commotion was about.

He pushed past the door and entered the room. For the first time, he saw Christine, in nothing but her brassiere and her chemise. The setting sunlight invaded the room and shined through the fabric, allowing Tristan a perfect view of her slender yet curvy figure. She was taken by surprise and took one of the many fabrics on the floor, covering herself with it. Tristan soon regained his composure and looked at the Italian.

"What is the meaning of this commotion?" He asked gravelly, making Christine swallow loudly and the few maids in the room slowly back away, returning to their duties before he dealt with them as well. The only one who didn't seem to mind Tristan was Antonia. Instead, she eyed him and began to close in on him.

"Hmm," she began, completely unaffected by his commanding presence or his mask. She paced around him, looking him up and down, taking mental notes of him until Tristan himself felt more agitated and unnerved.

"Who is this woman?" He demanded in brash words to Christine. She clung to the muslin fabric, growing redder by the minute.

"Signora Antonia Coticelli." She said, timidly at first, trying to regain her own composure. "She is a seamstress." As Tristan and Christine exchanged words, Antonia had neared him and began measuring him without his permission. She completely ignored him when he stepped back, surprised at her forward gestures.

"What in the world?" He exclaimed surprised, and Christine put a hand over her mouth, growing redder, trying to remain unaffected by the comical scene. Antonia only seemed irritated.

"Stand still! How can I take measurements if you move around all the time?" She snickered at him, yet he noticed how her eyes avoided his own a little.

"You are not making any garments for me." He strictly said and looked back at Christine. "And who gave you permission to call on her?" Tristan exclaimed severely. Christine removed her hand from her mouth and a frown replaced her smile. She stepped down from the pedestal and moved toward him, slightly reluctant at first, but gained confidence as she came closer.

"Maria, please escort signora Coticelli to her horse. I think she has what she needs, have her return in a weeks' time to show the progress she has made, and for fitting." Christine said. Maria did not hesitate to comply and dragged Antonia out of the room, the older woman protesting loudly, saying how she was not done with his lordship.

"I gave myself permission, I called on her." Christine was firm in her resolve. But Tristan could not take her very seriously when she stood in practically her underwear in front of him.

"You are to stay in this house until we leave Wessport. Henceforth, you are to receive no one. You are prohibited from attending any ball or feast and if you disobey me, I shall send you on the first ship back home."

"No." Her hands in fists and her jaw tense, Christine met Tristan full on. "I am not your wife, you cannot tell me what to do. And even if I were, you can still not tell me what to do." He inched closer, angered by her outburst.

"You will stay here if you know what is good for you."

"Oh, I know very well what is good for me!" She retorted, her voice rising in unison with his. "What is the reason for detaining me in such a way? Am I your prisoner? Have I committed any sin that obligates you to lock me in this dreary house?" She questioned forcefully, breathing deeply and regaining footing as Tristan shook his head, feeling a sudden migraine. He was tired, so many things were going through his head. He just wanted Christine to cooperate for once. But she was as stubborn as a mule. She had regained her headstrong composure and although Tristan scared the wits out of her at that moment, she would not back down.

He could not confess that he wanted her in the house because he knew they were being watched by someone in Wessport. Someone powerful was breathing down his neck, and he already felt guilty having brought Christine this far along. He cast one final glance at her. He'd rather have her hate him, despise him than worrying or trying to help him. She did not know what might wait on the horizon. He wanted to shield her, put her in a glass box where no ill words, glances nor hardships could reach her. Her lavender eyes were alive with fire, a fire he had never seen before. It won over her fear and shyness; it was a determination she held, something he did not know about. Tristan laughed in his mind at the irony of the situation between them. How many times had he found himself so close to her? How many times had he just wanted to reach out and touch her, feel her soft skin in contact with his? Her growing presence was like a cruel taunt sent from forces above. He knew he could never go further than stand close to her. Perhaps a dance or two. That was it.

She hugged the muslin tighter to her chest as Tristan remained silent. His eyes always in the shadow as much as he himself. For the first time she realized that she hated the mask. She no longer cared what it hid. All she saw was a barrier that further separated them. His reasons for detaining her, his hidden thoughts, everything was shielded in shadow. She now started to understand more of the man in front of her. He hid, not just from her, or from those around him, but from himself as well. Her expression softened as she tried to search something in that masked face of his. But she only found his mask and neutral lips in a thin line.

The cathedral bells sounded as the last rays of the sun left the room, now only lit by a few candles. The light was dull, casting more shadows over Tristan while it shone brighter over Christine. In the music of the bells, they stood without speaking. No words exchanged yet, so many words seemed to pass between them.

"I know why you have the urge to attend these festivities." Tristan's dark voice shattered the peaceful silence between them. She wondered if he still hated her ever since he had found out that she had tried to use him to get to Wessport.

"Then you know that I will stop at nothing." She said with a strong and proud resolve. Tristan felt hopeless for the first time as he looked at her. Something within him foretold that Christine's determinedness would cause severe consequences in the future.

"Nothing good has come of your meetings with the king. And it will not change." He said, turning around and leaving her alone in the room, alone with the echo of his words. It was only when he had left the room that she understood what he meant. She realized that his presence in her life, although irritating at times, with how stubborn he could be, or with his unsavory mood swings, had made her overcome her fears and grow as a person.

 **Author's Note: I hope you liked this chapter. Please feel free to leave a review, I always appreciate them! Thank you for reading**


	11. Chapter 11

**A TALE OF ANGLOA**

 _Chapter 11_

 _January 27_ _th_

"No, sire, this is outrageous! How can we do such a thing?" Lord Geoffrey Quinn said, outraged. Eighty-seven dukes, counts, and viscounts all sat in the main assembly hall where the king would hold meetings of state with his nobles. It was a round-shaped room, deep within the secure walls of the palace. Paintings of previous kings peered down on the men, severe and judging eyes looked as they were tasked with carrying Angloa into the future safely. Between the pictures there hung coats of arms of the royal family and the flag of Angloa. Tall windows placed up high in the room let the light cascade over the weary men. The king sat, facing them on a throne of wood and iron, with a golden, jeweled crown, a fine royal purple cape in velvet draping over his regal form. His doublet and jerkin matching with his cape in lighter purple and his breeches a deep beige.

Some lords stood or sat, depending on their rank. The dukes had the privilege to sit at the front on elaborate wooden chairs, carved by the most skillful masters of Angloa. The counts were next in line, standing behind the dukes, and lastly, came the viscounts. Tristan stood among them, dressed in his usual dark, informal clothing, looking more like an officer than a nobleman. He could feel the scornful eyes of the viscounts behind him as their eyes dug deep holes into his neck. The representative of the church, Cardinal Thorpe, was absent as he had sailed on the first ship to Rome, to the Vatican. The reason for his sudden trip was not made public to them.

Tristan saw some familiar faces, like General Anthony Fawkes, Duke of Castell and Protector of the Land. He sat next to Thomas Athar, Duke of Cantabria and the king's right-hand man, sitting closest to the king. Tristan kept an extra eye on him, for he was the one that Saxton had spoken about.

"It is a demand from your king, an oath I ask of all of you to swear." Said King James firmly, staring out over the daunting crowd of men. Most of them understood the severity of his requests, many were unwilling to obey. He was asking them to sign a document where they gave up their personal armies to him, which would be giving up all of their power to their king.

"Then what next? Shall you have us pay more taxes as well? The fact that we are already taxed, despite being of noble birth, is outrageous!" Said Lord Braun, stepping forward, claiming his title as Duke of Laënne. Behind him stood Lord Alistair and other men that agreed. Amongst them, Otto Savoie, a Frenchman who owned land in Angloa through marriage.

"This is not how we do in France." He exclaimed, deeply insulted by the king's suggestion.

"Well, Lord Savoie, we are not in France any longer." Came the burly voice of General Fawkes.

"It will indeed be a sign of loyalty if you put your name on this document." Said King James as he held up the parchment, on the outside, an insignificant piece of cured animal skin with some words. But those words were loaded with considerable meaning. "Who will be first?" Asked he as he looked about the room. All lords redirected their gazes and the first to stand up was Lord Athar, who took quill and ink, sealing the written word with his signature. Next came General Fawkes, signing as well. Some more viscounts and counts stepped up to sign the documents. But only a handful, they were men that were close to the king, they were in his circle.

To most of the lord's surprise, Tristan Hawthorne stepped forward and signed as well, agreeing to hand over his personal army and his soldiers. The king looked pleased. In a way, this whole ordeal was a sort of test for his lords. Tristan, Athar and Fawkes together with the others who had signed had passed. He now knew to confide even more in them than most of his dukes that only lingered in their chairs, looking away. When no one else stepped forward, the king took the parchment in his hand as the ink dried. A power struggle with anonymous participants had already taken its root in the country, the monarch had to act quickly. Thirty-five men had signed. He sighed loudly.

"It is a personal offense that not more of you have signed. But I consider those who have, to be loyal and honorable." He started, incriminating the dukes who had not stepped up. "I consider it also an act so close to treason that I might well have to imprison those who did not sign. Or I might have to take their armies by force." He said out loud, acting as if he were thinking about it. Suddenly most men got up from their chairs. All thoughts of personal honor gone as they were more fearful of their freedom and lands than their armies. King James smirked as he stared at the document being signed. After all was done there only remained seven men. Lord Alistair, Savoie, and Braun were amongst them.

"I take it that you rebel against me then?" Asked the king, leaning forward in his throne. Lord Braun stood up as if representing the group of men who had not signed.

"No, your majesty, but we need time to think this through. We are lords with powerful armies and feel that there should be a balance in this country. You have more than enough soldiers, you do not need ours as well. Yet, if it be your wish, let us return in a fortnight and convey what we feel should be altered in the document. Then we will give you what you seek." He said, expertly manipulating the words to his will. Tristan was amazed how he had managed to slither out of the agreement. King James had nothing against it and could do nothing less than approve. Tristan took great care in remembering the faces and names of the seven men before him. He was certain that amongst them, hid traitors. Amongst them must be the one Saxton spoke of.

"A fortnight, nothing more, Lord Braun." Said the king through gritted teeth.

The council of the lords was thus dispersed. Many had heavy hearts as the wave of change was brought upon Angloa. No longer could it be said that it was a complete feudal society. The nobles had given up much of their power to their king. James had proven to be a stronger monarch than anticipated.

As Tristan headed for the entrance and for his gray stallion, he was approached by a few men. General Fawkes greatly rejoiced in seeing him.

"Ah, Lord Hawthorne!" He exclaimed merrily as he neared Tristan, giving him a hard clap on the back. The general wore his black breastplate and decorated, tailored doublet underneath it. The black armor breastplate was purely decorative, serving to remind all who gazed upon the proud general that he was Lord Protector of the Realm. "You made me proud by signing back there!" He grinned at Tristan.

"I would never have gone against the king's request, my lord." Said Tristan. Lord Athar neared them now as well, worry was replaced by curiosity over Tristan Hawthorne. He had seen the man come and go to the palace during the war but he had never spoken with him. The man Tristan had spoken most with was General Fawkes. Lord Athar got a first good look at Tristan, he was impressed by what he saw. He could not guess his age, but he saw a strong man, with wit and determination who commanded respect. Yet there was a certain youthfulness about him that Athar could not explain.

"A true nobleman would never do such a thing." Said Athar as he neared, backed by some other lords. Tristan Hawthorne turned to face him, bowing in the presence of the powerful duke. Next to the king, Athar was probably one of the most influential and powerful men of the realm. Tristan showed his respects. Athar was impressed with the masked man's mastery of the aristocratic ways. He had never expected that he would already come to be so familiar with their ways and hierarchy.

"Blood never determined a man's true nobility." He continued. He understood that Hawthorne must be feeling the pressure of being a new aristocrat amongst so many old families. Yet most of their families had been much less than he, centuries ago. They had been merchant families or simple farmers, rebelling against the English and thus acquiring title and land from grateful kings. Such were the things of the past.

"It's the action that determines the man. And you, sir, have shown us all that you are a man of true honor." Said another man, standing next to Athar. It was a younger lord, a Viscount from the county next to New London. He was shorter than most in the group, with hair as black as night and eyes as green as a forest rooftop. He bore a goatee, a fashion that had started trending amongst the older gentry in Europe. He was dressed in elaborate tunics of velvets and cotton, bearing colors of deep green and dusty yellow. A two-handed sword clung to his hip. In fact, all men bore swords clinging to their hips. Only Tristan bore a one-handed sword, a type of sword that was starting to be referred to as a rapier.

"I thank you for your words, you honor me, lord…" Tristan began, not yet acquainted with the man.

"Ah, yes, we forget that you are not yet acquainted with most of us. Allow me," General Fawkes explained in a deep voice as he gestured toward the men. "I am sure you already know my lord Duke Thomas Perceval Athar." Lord Athar only snickered at the frivolous introduction.

"Lord Athar is what everyone calls me, Lord Hawthorne." General Fawkes only chuckled and continued.

"This lad here, is Lord Jonathan Linahan, third Viscount of Garette, close to New London." It was the dark haired man with the green eyes that had spoken before. "And these here are Walter Durun, Viscount of Durun, and Simon Rajac, Count of Labridia." General Fawkes said. Tristan did what he could to remember the names and the faces of these men, men who had been quick to sign the document in the assembly.

"For God's sake, General, do not introduce more men to Lord Hawthorne. For surely he will not remember all of us, and he shall think us offended when he forgets our names and titles!" Exclaimed Lord Linahan with a wide, boyish grin on his face. It made General Fawkes burst out into laughter.

"I shall not forget, my lords." Said Tristan. He was still guarded against them. He had been made aware of how fickle the courtiers of Wessport could be. He did not wish to take any chances and so he did not relax amongst them. The other men sensed his tense state and turned quiet as well. Only Lord Athar spoke.

"Lord Hawthorne, you should be prepared for more of these assemblies now. I suspect that His Majesty has taken a liking to you. I would not be surprised if you are included in the war council, headed by General Fawkes. But most of all, I sense that we shall all be reunited more frequently to deal with matters of threat to the state. Something must be done about the situation in Europe, we cannot ignore it." He said and continued his monolog about international politics. But it was as if he was speaking to deaf ears. Only Tristan and Jonathan seemed interested.

"Do not start with politics again, my lord!" Exclaimed Lord Rajac in a frantic manner. "Reserve such talk for when we are required to do it. Now let us speak of other matters. Lord Hawthorne, are you attending Count Savoie's ball for next month? It would be a great opportunity for your wife to properly reenter society." Tristan stood silent. His menacing aura extended in the hall and most in the group stepped back. Although they had found him to be short spoken and crude at first, now they found his presence overbearing and uncomfortable. Simon Rajac wondered if he had spoken out of term. He frowned slightly while lowering his gaze, not wanting to meet the masked face of the enigmatic man before him. General Fawkes placed a friendly hand on Tristan's shoulder, as he had known him longest in the group.

"There is no pressure for you to attend this ball, Lord Hawthorne, it would be completely understandable if you declined." He said sympathetically, referring to Christine. Fawkes understood well how hard it might be for her to be at such a social event. Yet, that was not what had irked Tristan the most. It was the fact that they also believed her to be his wife. He now wondered: had someone spread around that rumor? It would make Christine look even worse in the eyes of society once it was known that they had yet to be married. He knew not to trust such vital information to them yet, and he now knew that he could not allow her out in public until he fixed this mess.

"Her ladyship is strong, such things do not bother her." Mumbled Tristan, avoiding uttering her name. His thoughts were somewhere else. "If you will excuse me." He said, bowed and left the other lords to themselves.

"Well, this place shall certainly not be boring with this man here." Said a chipper Lord Durun as he tried to lighten the mood. Fawkes only sighed, already preoccupied for the masked man.

 _January 29_ _th_

Two women graced the frozen streets of Wessport in the upper circle. The market was filled with merchants from exquisite countries from the east or trading companies arriving from the west. They were by the fabric section. One woman bore a burgundy cape with a deep hood and her maid wore a woolen cape, yet showing her face. Christine was there, waiting for Antonia Coticelli, anxious. She did not wish to be recognized by old friends, and old enemies.

She browsed the different stands as they waited for Antonia. Tristan was completely unaware of their meeting, of course. She wanted to be angry with him, but she couldn't. The closer they became, the more she started unlocking his secrets. The complex puzzle unraveled before her and the more she understood about him, the more human he became in her eyes. The façade of the beast was slowly being plucked away. In her mind, it was always two steps forward, one step back. It was a long and tedious task, but she found that patience with him was her only friend at the moment. Christine understood that she had hurt both his pride and perhaps even feelings as he found out that she had tried to use her. She could not blame him, she would have reacted the same way, and not remain as civil as he. It was another show of how much of a gentleman he could be. But she would not succumb to his wishes and stay at home, like an obedient dog awaiting his master. She would not breech the subject, understanding that if he was reminded of what she was trying to accomplish there, he might very well resort to locking her up in the manse.

She wafted through the stalls, with Maria by her side. Last time she had been there was three years ago with her mother. They were on their way to pick out fabric for her new dress. She was to debut at court, arriving there for the first time. She remembered how excited and nervous she had been. She could see herself running from merchant to merchant, taking in all the varieties of fabrics, feeling the textile run through her nimble fingers, smelling their fresh scent and looking back at her mother. Now she stood here, again. Nothing had changed, and she felt herself transported back in time.

Some merchants specialized in oriental style fabrics arriving from China or the Middle East while others sold Italian, Spanish or French fabrics. Her eyes were drawn to a special piece of fabric and she walked over, her feet wading through the wet snow as her eyes hungrily took in the beautifully woven textile. She pulled off her light brown glove and let her hands brush the delicate material. It was a light blue silk, bordering on ivory. The color could almost be mistaken for white until it caught the light and displayed a myriad of lighter blue tones. It looked like the color of ice to her and the silk was lightweight and soft, gliding like water through her fingers, caressing her skin in a gentle manner. This was a fabric she had to have for one of her new dresses.

"A good eye you have, my lady." Came a brash Italian-accented voice behind her. Christine turned around to see Antonia Coticelli, dressed as frivolous as ever, mismatching greatly the composition of her attire. She wore a cloak with a deep hood as well. "Good, you came incognito as well!" She hissed in a whisper that was anything but quiet.

"Good sir, how much for this entire piece?" Said Anontia pointing at the ivory-blue silk. Maria cast a worried glance at Christine, wondering if they could afford it. Christine ignored her maid and felt her purse weigh heavy in her hand. She had brought more than enough.

"Ahh, I see that the Byzantine silk has caught your eye. A good piece of fabric indeed. That will be two gold pieces for the entire thing." The burly man said without shame. Christine felt her eyes widen at the high price. Antonia only laughed and then burst out in a tantrum.

"No, no! Two gold pieces for such a cloth? Does it have gold woven into it, _signore_? For I see no gold strands here. You might have fooled my lady here, but I am no fool. We shall give you fifty silver pieces and be done with it, or you shall lose us as customers for good. And we shall spread word of your heinous prices around town, no customer shall want to visit you again." She threatened. The man got visibly nervous as pearls of sweat started forming on his temples. He loosened his collar slightly.

"My apologies, madam, a man has to make a living. This comes directly from Constantinople by way of ship. It is incredibly hard to get now as the Ottomans are determined to sink every merchant ship they spot."

"The Ottomans and Angloa have a trading agreement, sir." Retorted Christine harshly. "We womenfolk know of politics too." She said, sounding offended. "Come, dear, let us go browse someplace else." She said, taking Antonia's arm in her own and turning away.

"Very well then!" Exclaimed the merchant behind them, "I shall give it to you for seventy silver pieces. That is my final offer."

"We will take it." Said Antonia smugly, "go ahead, my lady, pay the nice man." She grinned mischievously. The merchant felt his heart break as he saw the petty amount of silver coins pressed into his hands and the silken fabric being packed away by Maria.

They headed for the house, handing Antonia the fabric. She would stay and browse further. For there were more fabrics that she wanted to pick out for the dresses. Christine and Maria stalked the streets without speaking. Maria could notice Christine nervously looking around them all the time.

"No one will recognize you, miss." She reassured her. She received nothing but a forced smile while Christine pulled the hood further down to hide her face. As they reached the mansion they crossed paths with Joseph, who was arriving on his horse. He had been out the entire day, stalking John Fletcher, with nothing to show for it. When he saw Christine he was about to greet her, but she turned a cold shoulder to him. They had barely spoken. She now completely ignored him, just as he had done with Tristan during their long voyage. Joseph felt quite guilty as he had realized that he had acted wrongly and wanted to make up for it. But he knew that their friendship had taken quite a blow, and only time and rebuilding their trust would mend it.

"Miss Vega." He said, acknowledging her presence as she passed him. She did not respond although Maria curtsied with a sympathetic look in her eyes.

"Where were you?" Came Tristan's stern voice as they entered the house, shedding their capes. Joseph entered close behind them, mindful that the interaction probably was not for his ears. He therefore, asked Maria to come help him with a made up task, to get her away from there. While he passed Tristan, he cast him a glance, urging him not to be harsh on his fiancée.

"I was out searching fabric for my new gown. It is for the yearly winter ball that Lord Otto Savoie holds at his estate this year. If you must know all the details." She responded calmly. He was not her mother or father, nor her nanny. She was growing tired of his constant watchful eye over her, but she never let her slight irritation show.

"I told you not to leave the house." He said through gritted teeth. His anger and irritation growing by the minute.

"I know you did. Yet, I did not leave unaccompanied, Maria was with me." She felt no fear from him any longer, he could not toy around with her as he did with everyone else. But what was the use of getting tense and angered now? She had to resort to common sense and reason, or they would be snapping at each other forever. Christine knew that he must be appalled at her behavior in Adelton. She had tried to use him, after all, how could he ever grow to trust her motives again? But if she could show him that she could be rational while still obtaining her goals, then it would all end well. She had no wish to insult him as she had, but the young woman never realized that she was yet too proud to ask for forgiveness.

He was about to respond, in harsher words than he would have liked to admit when Christine cut him short.

"No more my lord, I have no strength today for your games." She said sadly and proceeded to head for her chambers. She hoped that he was not following, but she could soon hear his quick yet heavy steps closing in on her. She started rushing toward the safety of her chamber as Tristan picked up speed as well. Christine looked over her shoulder and started running frantically when she saw how near her he was. She felt herself being chased by a dangerous predator. Yet her slippers were not made for running and Tristan soon caught up with her. He took her by the shoulders and pressed her into the cold stone wall in the poorly lit corridor. His touch, even though through fabric, sent mild electric shocks through them both and they both breathed heavily after their spontaneous run.

"This is no game, Miss Vega," he growled into her ear. She could feel his hot breath and they sent shivers down her spine. She placed her hands on his arm to push him away, feeling the strong muscle beneath the shirt and doublet.

"Then what is this?" She questioned him while staring at his mouth. She could still not bring herself to look into his eyes. Part of her had come to appreciate Tristan's human side, the composed, respectful and quiet man who she was no longer afraid of. She wanted to believe that that side was his true side. Yet, she was afraid that in his eyes, the window to his soul, another part of him would show itself. Since Tristan hid his face, everything she perceived about him seemed heightened. A mere twitch of his lip spoke a thousand words. She was not yet ready to see the story his eyes would tell her.

Tristan, on the other hand, could not even think what to respond. For he did not wish to reveal to her that he did what he did to protect her. That would mean her finding out that he cared for her. It was a weakness she could use against him, it was something that had been done to him before, a long time ago. He would not be as foolish and trust a woman twice. He had learned his lesson and paid gravely for it. His anger washed away finally when he saw the inner battle in her eyes. He then understood that just as he was having conflicted feelings, Christine had them too.

"Trust me." He finally whispered. He squeezed her shoulders gently, then relaxed his grip and slid his hands down slightly against her arms. Christine felt her heart racing and all she could do was to nod, surprised. He let her go after a moment's silence without another word. As he started walking away, fighting hard to regain control of himself, she spoke, her voice breaking at some points.

"Will you trust me as well, someday?" She asked him. There was a certain undertone of hope in her voice that he could not ignore. Tristan's shoulders tensed and a new hope kindled in him now.

"Maybe." He murmured back, loud enough for her to hear. And in a second he was gone from the dark corridor, leaving Christine alone with her stirred thoughts. She leaned back on the wall and breathed deeply, a hand going to her chest and another one holding the wall. Two steps forward, one step back she reassured herself.

 _February 3_ _rd_

Lord Athar had to fight hard to stifle a yawn as the meeting progressed. They were once again reunited, discussing matters of politics and international relations. Angloa had no ambassadors to interact with other countries. It was something that might have kept the country safe from invading kingdoms from the mainland ever since its independence. But now both Spain and France had come knocking on its door ever since Angloa had defeated England and begun a peace ready and trading route with the island. Accepting an ambassador was a big affair indeed. It meant that Angloa would be further pulled into the political struggles of Europe, something no one wished for.

"We cannot allow for them to come here, to know of our own internal struggles, of our weaknesses." Said one of the lords.

"Yet," came the low, dark voice of Tristan. All eyes curiously turned to see what he had to say, for it was the first time he spoke out in the assembly. "If we do not accept, both Spain and France will take this as a personal offense. It is expected that we keep good relations, or at least in touch with our neighbors." He finished. No one said anything for they knew he was right. But soon Lord Alistair foolishly spoke up, always giving away his lack of intellect and knowing of the world.

"What would a warrior know of politics?" He sneered. "And for all we know, you might not even be Angloan, Hawthorne. We have seen no confirmation that you were. All we know is that mask you use to hide yourself." Lord Alistair smirked as he finished his little speech. Athar felt insulted even on Tristan's part. General Fawkes was visibly upset. But before any of them could speak out to defend Lord Hawthorne, he spoke up for himself.

"Politics is intertwined with war, something I am very familiar with, my lord. And as for being an Angloan, I can only give you my word of honor that when I say I am from this land, I mean it." Athar felt a chill rise up his spine at the cold words uttered by Tristan. "Furthermore," Tristan continued, "I would gladly show you what lies underneath this mask, but I am afraid that your simple mind could not handle it." He finished, his tone rough and cold, yet it did not mean to insult. Instead, it had been a direct threat aimed at Alistair. The other man did not speak and kept quiet. Athar, Fawkes and a handful of other men, including the king chuckled at Hawthorne's brash, yet truthful words. Athar found that he was having an ever-growing fondness for the younger man.

As the session ended he approached Tristan outside of the elaborate room where the assemblies were always held. He could not help but feel a small part of him wanting to step back at the intimidating enigma of a man before him as he spoke with General Fawkes. Tristan was dressed in his usual military-style garb. All black or dark colors and a simple doublet and jerkin. If Tristan wanted to succeed in court, he would have to change the way he dressed. Athar knew a good tailor Tristan could visit so that he might get out of those bulky clothes and into finer fabrics that suited his position.

"You spoke well in there today, Lord Hawthorne!" Exclaimed Athar as he neared. He thanked the other man respectfully.

"I only spoke the truth."

"And so you must continue to do. It is something we quite lack here in Wessport. Hearing the truth might ruffle some feathers, but I assure you that it is what the king needs to hear." General Fawkes exclaimed.

"I hope that you and your wife will finally join in on the celebrations of this year's winter ball? Even if it is hosted by Otto Savioe, he does know how to hold a big feast." Said Athar in a friendly manner. He had not known what to make of Hawthorne in the beginning. Athar had survived long at court because he had learned to be cautious. Yet, he felt that Tristan Hawthorne was a man he could trust. The discomfort his words had invoked in the taller man did not go entirely past him.

"It is not mandatory, of course, but I feel that we are many that would indeed be happy to see you there." Athar caught a glimpse of Tristan's eyes and was taken aback by the amount of expressiveness he found in them. He managed to catch the same cautious thoughts he would always have himself.

"I am sure it would be a lovely gathering but it would be impertinent for her ladyship and I to attend."

"Why no one would ever dare to remark about Mrs. Hawthorne's deceased father with you by her side." General Fawkes reassured Tristan in a cheerful manner. Athar felt a frown grow on his forehead at the mention of Charles Vega's name. But it was not _that_ which seemed to irk Hawthorne. He sensed something else present and Athar wondered. He knew the troubled look in Tristan's eyes, he had had it himself before, when he had been young.

"I am sure no one would be foolish enough to speak of such matters in my presence." He muttered, thinking what he would do if someone did. Athar was glad he would not be the man to anger Tristan Hawthorne. "But no, that is not it, my lords. Miss Vega and I are not married yet. I do not wish for her to be put in the crossfire of some nasty rumors as to why we have not been wedded." He simply stated. Tristan said the words very matter-of-factly. Yet, he caught both Lord Athar and General Fawkes by surprise. But Athar still knew that there was more to the story.

"Oh, I see." Said Athar, puzzled and very curious. He had seen the young Christine before. He wondered what stopped Tristan from marrying her. But he did not inquire. Neither did General Fawkes.

"Rest assured, no rumors nor information about this shall come from our mouths." Said he, reassuring Tristan of their loyalty.

"Of course. But I fear that the servants in my household will have already informed any who cares to listen. By the time of the ball, most will know of this secret and I fear my fiancée will be the one to take the fall, again. No, my lords, I cannot do this, she does not deserve this." Tristan said. It did not go by unnoticed by both men how much Tristan seemed to care for the young woman. He was rather protective of her, more than he had to.

"Yet nothing stops you from coming yourself, Lord Hawthorne," Fawkes said. "I only say so for it would indeed be good for you to make more acquaintances. We know many men who would be interested in meeting you and who you can begin favorable friendships with. Here in Wessport, you have to know who to trust and who not to." Lord Athar was more than sure that Tristan knew to read between the lines; that he knew what General Fawkes was really saying.

"I shall think of it." Was all Tristan said. He was prepared to leave when Athar found he had to have a final word with the young man.

"A word of advice before you part," Athar began, nearing the other man, placing a friendly hand on his shoulder. Tristan was astonished that Lord Athar even dared to touch him. From what little conversation he had had with the man, he found that he already had grown to like him. "If there is one thing I have learned from my marriage, is that communication is key. Talking with your intended, usually, solves minor problems. Being understanding solves everything." He said, giving Tristan a knowing look. Tristan only chuckled, inclining his head as a thank-you for the advice given. He promptly left the two men alone as he walked to fetch his horse and ride home.

"What was that about?" Asked a confused Fawkes. He was met by a snicker from Athar.

"You know, for always being in the company of women, you sure do know little about them, or the effect they cause." He stated. It only coaxed a deep sigh from Fawkes.

"Do you imply then that Hawthorne is having trouble with his fiancée?"

"One might not see it, but it is there. He might wear a mask, Fawkes, but even _that_ cannot hide his thoughts toward the girl." Fawkes chuckled, joined in by his friend.

"I might like him more than I should." Laughed Athar as he saw the dark form disappear behind the corner.

"As do I!" Exclaimed General Fawkes. "It is too bad about his fiancée, though. To think that he has yet to marry such a fine specimen of a woman." General Fawkes said, letting his more basic needs take over his rational thought. Athar rolled his eyes and placed a hand on the other man's shoulders.

"Do not start that again with me." He sighed as they walked away, toward the entrance of the palace where a horse and carriage awaited them.

"All I am saying is that you are still young, Thomas! You can still partake in the delights of the flesh." General Fawkes chuckled. Athar sighed even more deeply.

"I know you think I am still young. But I will not soil the memory of my dear Rebecca, may her soul rest in peace."

* * *

Only two days remained until the annual winter ball. Christine did not know what to think whenever she saw Maria prepare her clothes. Antonia had sneaked in several times, for fittings. She was almost done with her dress for the winter ball and Christine was pleasantly surprised by the seamstress. The creation she had seen, even though it was far from complete, was the most breathtaking dress Christine had ever witnessed. But Antonia wanted to go further. She had a _vision_ as she put it. Christine had handed Maria a bag of coins and her maid and seamstress had headed to the jewelers' and then to a shoemaker. Antonia Coticelli wanted everything to be as perfect as it could be. Christine saw the dress as a piece of armor, it would protect her long enough until she could get to the king and speak with him. After, she would disappear into the crowd and leave the party as quickly as possible. She had no wish to remain amongst so many malicious people.

"Miss, miss!" Came the desperate shouts of Maria as she practically barged into Christine's chamber without knocking. Christine had been sitting by the window, allowing the light of day to filter in, reading in moderate tranquility. She got up, worry and confusion seeped into her otherwise calm features.

"What is it, Maria?" Christine asked, putting away the book and taking the maid's hands in hers, trying to calm the girl down.

"Oh, Miss, we are done for." Exclaimed Maria between great breaths of exhaustion. It was evident that she must have run quite a distance to tire herself as much.

"Where did you come running from?"

"From the stables, miss, I was seeing to it that Mrs. Coticelli left unseen from the manse. I saw his lordship return and overheard him talk to the keeper, Mrs. Rochester." Maria had to stop and let her breath catch up. Her shoulders heaved at the strenuous task she had just preformed. Those few seconds were enough to send Christine's mind spinning in all directions. Had Tristan discovered Antonia? Had he discovered the dress she had so carefully tried to conceal? Christine let out a frustrated "no". But it seemed that was not the case.

"He asked her to send for a tailor. Lord Hawthorne plans to attend the feast, miss. What shall we do?" She asked in desperation. Christine let go of Maria and went over to her bed to sit down in defeat. She did not trust Tristan enough to reveal everything and ask if she could join him in going to the ball. The blasted thing was merely two days away, how would she explain a new dress in such a short amount of time? A thousand thoughts ran through her mind. New plans were being forged, old ones were forgotten.

"I must still go, it might be the only chance I have to see His Majesty." She murmured to herself.

"If you go, without him, and end up meeting him at the party, then what will you do?"

"I will take responsibility for my actions, Maria." Said Christine through gritted teeth. She had no other choice. She only hoped that she would not stumble upon Tristan in the sea of guests. She had heard of Savoie's estate, it was massive. She was sure that she could keep away from him long enough to get to the king.

"Then all is to go as planned?" Asked Maria. She was worried for her mistress. It could not be healthy to want something so bad that she was willing to put her reputation and well-being on the line for it.

"No. We must wait until his lordship leaves. Signora Coticelli has already acquired a carriage for us with the money I gave her. I shall have to sneak out the back door and ride for the estate when we are sure that my fiancé is far away from the house."

Maria shook her head. It was too close for comfort. Christine was taking a big risk, but she understood why she did it. Maria had been let in on Christine's plan to clear her father's name long ago, back in Cadherra. She understood what drove her to commit such acts. But she could not help but worry for her.

"Very well. I shall seek out Mrs. Coticelli immediately and inform her of the change in plans." Murmured Maria, heading to her room for her coat. Christine, in the meantime, got up and started strolling back and forth in her chamber, feeling the anxiety creep up on her, festering within her like a disease.

"This must work." She murmured to herself when she thought Maria was not within earshot.

 _February 5_ _th_

"Are you sure about this? I thought you said it would be best not to go." Came the questioning voice of Joseph. He seemed to think that he was the voice of reason in all of this.

"You said so yourself yesterday. You could recognize the man Captain Fletcher has been seeing if you were to catch a mere glimpse of him. Going to the winter ball might be the perfect opportunity for you to do so." Said Tristan as a footman dressed him. He had followed lord Athar's advice and decided to go to the ball. Through hard search and some help from the duke, he had found a tailor; a Spaniard who had worked in France the last few years, only to recently arrive in Angloa. The price had been too high to Tristan's liking, but he had finally gotten a new wardrobe. The tailor had taken one look at his torn, military clothes and wrinkled his nose in disgust. He had worked non-stop night and day to assemble his first piece of clothing in time for the ball.

"When your clothes were so bulky, you were not able to show your true figure, señor Hawthorne." He said as he helped him get into the doublet.

"As long as I do not have to wear those ridiculous cod-pieces or silly stockings..." Tristan answered harshly. He was not keen on fashion and he preferred comfort over style. But the tailor, Miguel Guzmán, was excellent at what he did. He knew Tristan to be a man of simpler tastes. The tailor had managed to build him a wardrobe of clothes that were in his taste while still being stylish and elegant.

Tristan wore more colors now as well, only that it was very subtle. He wore dark blue, bordering-on-black hoses. The garment was divided; the upper part, the breeches, reached his upper calf. They were slim-fitted instead of the usually poofed style that was otherwise fashionable. If there was something Miguel could not coax him out of, it was the boots. And so, he had sent for one of the best shoemakers in Wessport, to give Tristan newer and better boots. The black leather had been shined to perfection and served to contrast with the dark blue. The outer thighs of the hoses bore a subtle golden lining in the fabric, to further outline Tristan's lean figure and it served to make him look even taller. Miguel wanted to emphasize on the lean, muscular figure that Tristan had been so good at hiding under bulky and robust clothing.

The garments he had worn beforehand had made him almost look like a brute in his size. But now, he wore a fine, white shirt that hugged him in all the right areas. The lace around the handcuffs was minimal, for Tristan disliked such things. The lace for the neck was non-existent. Miguel had, in vain, tried to coax the stubborn lord that lace was worn by everyone. The doublet worn over the shirt was sewn in an intricate pattern that hugged Tristan's V-shaped torso. It transformed his usual bulky physique and presented the lean man underneath it. The material was a rich taffeta, lined with fine cotton. The pattern was in damask and the dark gold swirls contrasted with the royal blue of the doublet. Over was a jerkin that brought the whole outfit together. It was a vest in dark blue, lined in threads of gold just like the breeches. Tristan wore his usual black mask and gloves. He had a sword hanging on his hip with a more elaborate handle. The metal was swirling and twisting to protect the bearer's hand from any direct hits. In his boot, Tristan had a knife, as always. He was paranoid but nonetheless prepared for anything that might come his way.

Joseph wore an elaborate suit as well. With the theme of green and silver, instead of blue and gold. Both men looked stunning in their clothes and Miguel was very pleased when he was done.

"No one will look at that mask of yours now." He exclaimed pleased. "That reminds me. I know a very good craftsman here in the upper circle that could craft you new leather masks."

"The ones I have are comfortable enough." Muttered Tristan.

"Si, but they barely allow view for your eyes." Said the merry voice of the Spaniard. His accent reminded Tristan of Sofia. But his masks were tailored as he liked it, the less his eyes could be seen, the better.

"No." He finally said. Tristan had one of the footmen hand Miguel a purse and then cast a final glance at Joseph. "We are going."

Miguel was shown to his horse while Tristan and Joseph mounted their respective stallions. It was already dark when a footman showed them the way to the Savoie estate. It was a bit outside the city walls and the journey would take at least 30 minutes. Tristan and Joseph wore capes matching their clothing. They wore it as all men did then, tied diagonally across the back. It looked good, but it did little in giving any warmth. Therefore, both of them had thrown on coarser capes, to keep the warmth as they rode through the snowy city and out through the gates. They both wore black wide brimmed hats as well, one end curled up toward the head. White feathers adorned one side of Joseph's hat while Tristan's was kept simple, with no decorations. The strong horses took them in quick canter toward the lights and sound of laughter in the far distance.

As soon as the horses had left, Maria ran to Christine's room where her mistress was waiting together with Antonia.

"Miss, his lordship and sir Joseph have left now." She said, almost giddy. Her nerves did not know what to make of the situation.

"Then we may finally dress you, signorina." Said Antonia as she reached for the finished dress. The process took longer than expected and the hour was growing late when Christine was finally done. Maria and Antonia took a step back to fully admire the young woman.

"You look…" was all Maria could manage. She had no words for how Christine looked. She had never seen anything similar. Maria imagined that if winter was a person, this is what she might look like.

"You look amazing, cara mia." Antonia was more than pleased. Her muse had brought the dress to life, and she knew that every woman in Wessport would now want to know who Christine's seamstress was.

"We have to go now, miss. Before the hour grows too late." Said Maria as she pushed Christine toward the door. The three women carefully sneaked along the corridor. Maria was first, holding a lookout for maids or footmen. They rushed to the back entrance, standing empty, just as they had predicted.

Antonia placed a heavy coat over Christine's shoulders to keep the shuddering woman from freezing.

"Where is the carriage?" Asked Christine as she looked around. As if on demand a small, elegant carriage suddenly appeared behind the corner. It was dragged by four horses, each of them in shades of gray, making them appear like silver horses. The driver was a thin, boyish-looking man dressed in fine clothes and warm coats against the cold weather.

"All clear, Antonia?" Asked the coachman. Christine and Maria were surprised when the voice of a woman emerged from the driver. They understood then that it was a woman dressed as a man.

"Si, si." Urged Antonia. She took one last glance at Christine, pleased with her accomplishments. "Remember girl, you are to tell no one yet who your seamstress is."

"I remember. Thank you, Signora Coticelli." Was all she could say. The young woman rushed across the yard toward the black carriage and promptly jumped into it. Before Maria had even managed to close the door behind her mistress, the carriage was already on its way. Christine knew there was no turning back now, she had to see this through. The worry in her stomach ate away at her the closer they got to Savoie's estate.

* * *

 **Note: If you liked it, please feel free to leave a review, it is very much appreciated. I would also like to point out that if you see any faults, grammatical or historical, please point them out. I am not a historian and I am sure that some minor detail might escape me. Thanks again. Cheers!**


	12. Chapter 12

**A TALE OF ANGLOA**

 _Chapter 12_

 _January 5_ _th_ _\- Savoie's Estate_

Behind a hill lay the vast estate of Otto Savoie. The man had spared no expense for the annual winter ball.

Mighty torches lined the road, lighting it up all the way from the outskirts of Wessport, until his doorstep. A red carpet had been extended from the entrance and placed over the icy stone steps. When guests descended from their horses or carriages, they would not have to soil their slippers and walk directly on the snow. The lower front of the house was decorated with greens, twigs of spruce and evergreen that never wilted, even during winter.

Tristan and Joseph arrived, impressed by the grand house. It was a tall building, sporting at least four or five visible levels. The original castle, from where the mansion had been built, had been greatly remodeled. It had been made more modern by removing the gatehouse and towers surrounding it. Instead, a fashionable park led up to the front of the house, with no inner courtyard, like the older buildings usually had. The first two levels of the estate were in a tattered, darker stone, probably old remnants from the castle that had once stood there. The upper three levels were constructed in more refined, and brighter stone, swirly patterns were carved into the façade, telling of the money that had gone into carefully carving it. The windows were tall and wide, allowing the lights from inside to seep out and illuminate the surroundings of the house. Empty ceramic pots in royal blue were placed around the building, probably filled with flowers or proud trees during spring and summer.

The front park of the house was packed with several carriages and many horses. Drivers and servants alike sat toward the corners of the house, around lit fires, keeping warm during the cold of night. Some more unfortunate souls had been tasked with guarding the graceful carriages that had been neatly stacked in rows before the house.

Tristan and Joseph arrived like two knights of old on their mighty steeds. Some servants glanced curiously their way as the horses bore them toward the entrance. They descended on the red carpet, promptly handing their stallions to a servant who asked for their names and wrote it down, as to remember who the horses belonged to. He sneaked some extra glances at Tristan, his eyes widening as he saw the mask.

They climbed the small stone steps to the main door, made in oak, two stories tall with massive handles in iron, covered in silver leaf. Tristan thought Savoie to be too extreme for having covered his iron door handles in silver, but he did not mention it to Joseph. Another servant hurried up the steps behind them, bowing deeply as he opened the massive doors. Warmth showered over them as well as loud music and laughter.

"Remember, we are here for one thing. The moment you see him you have to inform me of it." He said in Joseph's direction. _And then we can leave,_ thought Tristan. He did not like larger crowds and did all he could to stay away from them.

As they walked into the first hall, their capes were taken. Tristan was reluctant to let go of the other cape he wore. He was still not comfortable in his more tight fitting clothing and the cape offered him some slight protection from prying eyes. He rested his hand on the sword handle and sighed. Joseph could not help but notice. Yet, he said nothing.

They were led up elegant marble stairs together with some other guests that had just arrived. The servant, a short footman, still young enough to be considered a boy, led them to the grand hall. It was a vast room that occupied most of the north wing of the manse. The doors leading to it were closed, standing two levels high and looking at the guests in a threatening manner. The other guests in the group kept glancing at Tristan, just like the servant before. Some of the ladies blushed as their hungry eyes wandered over his body, curious. They already knew who the masked man was. Anybody who kept up with gossip and politics in Wessport knew who Tristan Hawthorne was.

The elegant doors swung open as a man holding a large list kept announcing the guests, one by one as they entered. Joseph walked in before him, already diving into the crowd in search for enemies of the state. Tristan could see the sea of people before him and wanted nothing more than to return home. His hand gripped the sword-handle as hard as it could and he held his breath as it was his turn to enter. The cheerful laughter and general mumble died down a little when Tristan's name was declared. Tristan stood in the opening, collecting enough valor to step out on this unknown battlefield, where he had no idea who was friend and who was enemy.

He saw some familiar faces. Most of them belonged to members of either the war council or the lord's assembly. But he greeted none of them, for he did not know them well enough. The crowd parted significantly as his tall form waded through. Elegantly dressed men and women gaped as the Count of Cadherra entered the room with long and prideful steps. It was just like a few months ago when he had returned victorious from war to King James' court.

Meanwhile, he took in his surroundings, impressed by what he saw. The roof was high. It felt as if he looked at heaven itself. It had several frescoes painted on it and he wondered if he knew any of the painters. The Italian style was all too familiar to him as he kept glancing up discreetly. Troubadours and minstrels lined the north part of the room, playing a merry tune as people danced a _pavane_ next to them. He spotted the king dancing with a young blushing woman. He knew as well as anyone that the youth would probably serve as pleasure to the king for the night. Tristan's suspicions were confirmed when he spotted a sulking Queen Tabitha, sitting alone and neglected in a corner, surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting.

Along the walls, Angloan flags were hung, and flags from different counties and dukedoms. Tristan could spot the flag of Cadherra, his province, stretched out on the wall. At the east wall of the hall he saw a secluded area, no doubt for the king to get away from the pushing crowd. It seemed big enough for the monarch to invite some of his closer acquaintances.

"Hawthorne!" Came the jolly, baritone voice of General Fawkes. The burly man waded through the crowd and made his way to Tristan. He signaled for a servant to bring them refreshments. "I am very pleased that you came!" He exclaimed. Tristan could smell the alcohol on his breath and wondered how many drinks the General had already had.

"Of course, General Fawkes." Said he, bowing in respect toward his superior officer. General Fawkes frowned.

"No, Hawthorne, just Fawkes. The time we fought together on the battlefield is long over. We have to put our military past behind us and enjoy this new friendship we have forged." He said, smiling, stroking his whiskers as a servant came bearing two metal cups, filled with some sort of beverage. He handed one to Tristan and finished his in one big gulp.

"As you wish, my lord Fawkes." Tristan was still not sure who he could trust. Putting a label on their peculiar relationship would not be the best thing to do now. Although he considered the General to be quite harmless. He was transparent enough. Fawkes was a true patriot and an honorable man, he would be the last one to be entangled in corruption and conspiracy.

"Where is Lord Athar?" He asked, looking around curiously, for he did not see the white-haired old many anywhere.

"Probably lost on the way here. But he will come. That man would be late to his own funeral if he could." The remark managed to coax a chuckle from the masked man. He swept his gaze over the crowd, managing to see Joseph, who was hard at work, searching for the man who had met up with Fletcher.

"And what of your lovely fiancée?" Whispered General Fawkes as he finally noticed that Tristan was alone. In fact, most of the guests had remarked that Tristan had come unaccompanied by Christine. The rumor that they were not yet married had already spread like wildfire and speculations regarding what had stopped the couple from marrying circulated the room.

What was more alarming was that a select few speculated around her presence in the city. Some men and women argued that she had been called there. Others argued that she had come of her own free will, to request something from the king. Soon it was all anyone talked about.

People, of course, had already gossiped about the young Vega woman when she had attended court but a few months ago. Speculations as to why she had come with her mother had floated through the city. Never did they think that the king had plans to marry someone like her off. People had not envied her then, for who would want to marry Tristan Hawthorne? Yet, as days turned into weeks and weeks turned to months, many realized that perhaps Hawthorne was not so bad after all. His mask left much to discover, and many found him unnerving as a whole. Yet, he was rich, he had a high title, and he was a war hero. Whatever the case, many thought that they could put up with a man like he; if it meant that they could have access to all that was now tied to his name.

"She was indisposed when I left." Tristan lied, taking care not to look too sour as he spoke the words. He was glad that Christine was not there. He was certain she would not be able to take all the prying and judgmental looks that would have been cast her way. Yet, he felt that he had done her an injustice in not giving her the chance to speak with King James. He wondered if perhaps he could speak on her behalf. If he waited for the king to become intoxicated enough, he was sure he could ask any favor of the man. For the monarch had already implied that he owed him so much.

"I understand if she did not want to come here." Muttered Fawkes suddenly. He turned serious as his gaze swept over the masses. "If I were her, I would not want to be in the same room as these wolves neither." He snickered. He placed a friendly hand on Tristan's shoulder and gave the younger man a comforting smile. "Yet, I feel that she would have felt more than safe by your side." He insinuated. Tristan only shook his head and forced a smile as he took a sip of the beverage. He had to fight hard not to cough as he was amazed by how strong the alcohol was in it. He wondered if General Fawkes had dumped a whole bottle of spirits in his cup before handing it over to him.

"Good stuff, eh?" Blinked the general when he saw Tristan's reaction to the strong alcohol. All the other man could do was nod while trying to force the rest of the substance down his throat.

Soon, curious and brave men and women had neared both of the generals. They were keen on getting to know the masked man further. Soon Tristan felt that he had an unknown man or woman trying to converse with him left and right.

"I see the wolves have you." Came a joyful voice behind him. Tristan turned around and saw Lord Linahan smiling sheepishly. "Do you wish me to save you from them, perhaps?" He whispered as he saw how the throng pushed further upon the general who wanted nothing but to get away from them. Tristan took a final gulp of his cup and gave a slight nod. It was all Linahan needed to whisk Tristan away.

"My lord Hawthorne. The king wishes to speak with you." He said in a loud voice. It was enough to make the surrounding mass of people leave Tristan be. He struggled out of the people, wading through the crowd, closely following Linahan. It was easy getting through. Many of the men and women that saw the masked man approach stepped aside. Whispers were immediate as he passed. Many commented on the surprise they felt as they saw him.

The tales of Tristan Hawthorne were that the man was tall and bulky, almost like an animal. But what they saw was just an intimidating man that imposed with a powerful presence. It was true then that Tristan had seen a transformation since arriving at court. In some strange way, a change of clothes had managed to humanize him.

Many women, who had seen him the day he had arrived from Castell, after the defeat of the English, felt a stronger curiosity toward the man now. Many could not help but blush as impure thoughts of the general and count circulated in their minds. They were sure that they would have to go to confession after letting the lustful thoughts run their course, but they did not push them aside. Instead, they welcomed them.

Tristan neared the secluded section allowed for His Majesty. It was closed off from the surrounding crowd by guards and even some screens in thin wood. Who knew? At any moment a conspirator might pull a hidden knife and stab the monarch. Tristan was disappointed in the lack of security the ball offered. He noted how none of the guests had been searched at arrival. The fact that he, and many others, carried a sword, was not frowned upon. He knew that in other countries, carrying, or even drawing a sword, in the king's presence, would be given the sentence of death.

"Your Majesty." He said, bowing in deep respect as he neared where the king stood, having just arrived there from his dancing. King James, who was now talking to a beautiful brunette turned to greet Tristan, pleased that the enigmatic man had decided to join the party.

"Ah, Lord Hawthorne!" He exclaimed. He went over and coaxed the other to straighten up. He looked Tristan up and down as if taking in his change in appearance. King James seemed utmost pleased with what he saw. The man before him seemed transformed. No longer was he the bulky, military man he was so used to. Before him stood, albeit a mysterious, yet refined gentleman in all his finery yet simplistic clothing. Tristan exuded style with a casual, laid back demeanor. Yet he still bore a sword clinging to his hip.

"Hm, yes. I like this Tristan Hawthorne much better." Remarked the king, very pleased with what he saw. He glanced at the sword on Tristan's hip and commended him on the fine craftsmanship of the weapon. James looked around them, confused. "But, pray tell, I do not see your wife, nay, shall I say _fiancée_ anywhere." He added slyly. It was clear then to Tristan that word had finally gotten out that he was yet to marry Christine.

"Miss Vega is indisposed for the evening." He only managed to say. It was clear then to Tristan that he could never let Christine out into society. He was afraid for her. The crowd that had once treated him as a stranger and dangerous would shun her. He did not want to see more hurt in her eyes. It was time for him to come clean to her. He had to explain why he wanted to keep her in the house, and why he had never wanted her to come with him in the first place. At least Adelton Hall was safe for her.

"I am indeed disappointed that a union has yet to be made." Sighed James. "But I understand your reluctance in marrying a traitor's daughter. I would feel the same way." The words caused Tristan's head to snap out from his train of thought. Fawkes, who stood close, next to him, could feel him tense up. Tristan's eyes narrowed, but they were not visible. Yet, James could feel the man sending daggers his way. He almost took a step back, instantly regretting his choice in words. It was evident that the king had tried to provoke the other man with his choice of words. What James truly felt about the subject remained a mystery. The courtiers around him all looked to the floor, afraid of meeting the masked man's piercing gaze.

"That is, and never will be, the reason for us not having married yet, Your Majesty." He said, growling like an animal. "I have had to bring Adelton Hall back into its previous state as it had stood empty for a year. I had to take care of some bandits lurking in the forests by the village next to my castle." He added. He knew them to be weak excuses but he would not hear any man, not even the king, insult Christine in such a way.

"Of course. I understand. I see then that Saxton has given you a hard time. He can be a nuisance. Yet Raven's Grove is dangerous and only he knows how to properly navigate it. I know many who have lost their men trying to bring Saxton down." It had been made clear, later, to Tristan by Joseph and Lucius why they had never heard any ill words about Saxton. They had all been away at war when his demise had happened. Such news and gossip never reached the front, and men were too occupied to distract themselves with such tales.

"He is not a threat anymore." Said Tristan, almost savoring his victory. James and some other courtiers widened the eyes at the statement.

"Then he is vanquished?" Asked the brunette, astonished. Saxton was well known in Wessport. He had once been one of them, belonged amongst them. But now he was just a common thief and murderer, seeking shelter in the depths of Raven's Grove.

"He has been taken care of." Was all Tristan said. He did not want to disclose the words that had been exchanged between them. If James knew that he had taken into account what Saxton had said, he was sure that the monarch would jump to suspicion.

"That is indeed good news!" Said James, with glee on his face. It made Tristan wonder further if he could even come to trust the king. He wondered if, in the case that Saxton was fully innocent, the king was aware of it. "A toast to your victory over that blackguard!" Exclaimed James, handing Tristan a cup filled to the brim with wine. Fawkes was handed another one, and they all toasted, satisfied as the rich beverage soothed their throats.

Before anything else could be said James seemed to have made eye contact with someone in the crowd and he seemed to remember something.

"Ah, that reminds me," he said while gesturing for someone to come. Tristan could feel her presence before he saw her. He felt a feeling of uncomfortable uneasiness settle in his stomach as the female presence neared him from behind. She walked past him to stand by King James' right side, elegantly holding a cup of silver, containing a clear liquid.

It was Lady Carina Fell, older cousin to the king. She stood as regal as ever next to him, her deep, green eyes sparking dangerously, looking sultry and calculating as she swept her gaze over Tristan. She looked him up and down several times, not hiding the fact. A small smile started spreading on her lips as it was obvious that she was enjoying the view before her. Her purple, velvet dress with matching brocade; a color only reserved for royalty, clung to her curvaceous torso. She oozed confidence and finesse. Her black tresses were curled back away from her face and braided into a thick, long braid, arranged in long ringlets that draped her back. All of her seemed strong, yet there was a touch of delicate femininity that added to her charm. It did not go past Tristan that, even though the woman before him was in her autumn years, she caught the lustful gaze of almost every man that she walked past. Even now, standing next to the king, men dared to stare at her, imagining having her as his that night.

"Lord Hawthorne, it is my wish to introduce you to my cousin, Her Highness, Carina Fell, princes of Angloa." He said as he introduced the two. "Dear cousin, I barely think the count needs any introduction," James smirked as he motioned toward Tristan as if he was not there.

"Of course not. We know all about him." Carina said, a delicate smirk spread across her plump lips. Her voice was smooth and deep, it might have seemed sensual to most there, but to Hawthorne, it was too sensual. Tristan wondered just how much they knew about him. The whispers and curious glances of the crowd that night were nothing in comparison to the penetrating gaze of Carina Fell. She made it blatantly clear that she was very much interested in him and she was not afraid of showing it. The masked man was a wrapped gift, just waiting to be opened and explored.

"Your Highness, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance." He answered, ignoring her comment. He was not the one to play word games, for he was not a courtier. Before he could excuse himself Lady Carina had already made a move. She had grabbed his arm and moved to stand next to him, her arm in his. She was feeling the muscles hidden beneath the fine fabrics, her smirk growing wider in anticipation.

"Walk with me." Was all she said. The tall man next to her obeyed, just as she had expected. When the couple grazed the floor, all guests instantly made way for them. But instead of just casting small glances at Tristan, as they had done before, they could not help but to stare as Carina swayed gracefully next to the masked man who walked beside her. They seemed like a power couple to the crowd. Whispers about how they fit perfectly together sounded. For they both inspired a dark, mysterious aura that could not be explained. Christine Vega was soon disregarded and eyes were now on Tristan Hawthorne and Carina Fell. James Fell noticed this too, a sly smile forming on his lips.

"I hope you will stay long in Wessport." She casually commented while ignoring the crowd. Yet, as she walked past them, she would acknowledge certain men or women in the masses. Carina had them eating out the palm of her hand. Many wanted to boast of being acknowledged by the princess. Tristan, however, paid little attention to her as he remained silent. Carina arched thin eyebrow. She was used to men wanting to please her in every way. But the mysterious Count of Cadherra paid little to no attention to her. It only kindled more of her curiosity for the man.

"I see that those pesky assemblies with the other lords must have fatigued you, my lord. For your tongue does not seem to be working." She teased while looking straight at him. Carina did not waver one instant as her emerald eyes searched that masked face of his. She analyzed every curve of his face. Her eyes rested on his lips and she was delighted when they moved as he spoke.

"Perhaps." Was all he said. He did not seem moved nor irritated by her sly remark and she was disappointed as his rigid posture did not falter an inch. She wondered what might stir up some emotion in the man. So Carina let her eyes look him over once more and spoke again, her words spilling out of her mouth like soft silk.

"Is it true you never take off your mask or gloves in public?" She asked carelessly as they kept wading through the public. Some bystanders heard her question and gasped silently. Anyone in their right mind knew not to ask such a question of Tristan Hawthorne. Yet, Lady Carina had been the first one to ever dare inquire about the mask that covered his face. She could feel him tense slightly but relax instantly, never letting her words affect him.

"Yes, Your Highness." Was all he replied while sneaking a glance at her. Carina only smiled and when he loomed slightly over her as if warning her not to ask such a foolish thing again, her smile only grew.

"Oh, well, that is most interesting." She continued, not at all uncomfortable by his threatening presence. The surrounding crowd, however, did not wish to be in the man's way as they shivered in his presence. Most of them had no idea how Lady Carina managed to be in such proximity to him. It only served to further deepen their respect and appreciation for the princess.

"I suppose then, that your wife… oh pardon me, your _fiancée_ ," the woman began in a relaxed manner, leaning slightly and casually on him as she continued sweetly, "she has never seen you without the mask then?" She was pleased when she felt him immediately go rigid at the mention of Christine. Carina could see his jaw tense under his mask and she silently commended herself at finally having managed to stir some emotion in the man. She waited patiently to see what he would respond, wondering what wordplay he would use with her. If there was something that Carina enjoyed, it was the game of the court, to see who could outwit who first. She considered herself quite good at it. It took a few minutes for him to calm himself enough as to not growl at her when he answered.

"No, she has not." Was all he said, stiffly and sourly, as if just biting into a lemon. It produced a lighthearted laugh in Carina, drawing even more attention to them. She enjoyed teasing him tremendously, his reaction was not what she had expected. Carina had thought that he would lash out at her. Yet, he still managed to compose himself. She wondered if the rumors of him having unsavory mood swings were really true.

She gently patted his arm in a caring manner. "Do not worry, my lord. I was only teasing." She explained through contained chuckles. "It was a tasteless question to ask on my part." She finally admitted, but never apologized for it. However, the other man seemed less tense, but he was still on his guard against her. They had rounded the entire hall and arrived where King James stood with his ensemble once more.

"Hawthorne," Said General Fawkes as he saw him nearing, with Lady Carina Fell on his right arm. The older General smiled knowingly toward the couple, for he was well acquainted with the nature of the woman, among other things. "I see you managed to whisk away this beautiful rose." He said while nodding at Carina. "Be careful, she has thorns." Mentioned James as he joined in on the small group. The men bowed while the princess curtsied at his presence.

"She has made me aware of that." Responded Tristan in a neutral tone, never giving away what he really thought of her. Carina only chuckled, soon joined by her cousin and Fawkes.

"I am afraid that my teasing on the count's behalf went too far. Yet, he took it like any gentleman would." She finally responded in her smooth, feminine voice.

"I can imagine." Said the king as he tried to read Tristan's body language for any clues as to what he was thinking. But the king might as well have tried to understand what his horse was saying, for he could get nothing from the count. "Might I steal my cousin for a moment?" He asked, looking at Carina. Tristan immediately dislodged his arm from hers and bent over her hand, his mouth resting a breath away from her skin, never touching it. Carina frowned slightly when he did not kiss her hand, but she did not say anything about it.

"You Highness." He said in the same dark, neutral voice. "A pleasure."

"I am sure." She said enigmatically. Her cousin led her away, and she immediately began whispering in his ear while looking back at Tristan. Fawkes patted him lightly on the back.

"What a woman." He sighed as he saw her leave.

"Hm." Muttered Tristan, relaxing slightly as the royals left them. It only produced a chuckle in Fawkes as an inquisitive eyebrow rose.

"I suspect then that she might seem a bit too forceful in your eyes. But she is a lovely creature. Be mindful of her, though. You never know what goes through her mind. She reminds me of you, in some sense." Fawkes said pensively. It managed to bring a smile to Tristan's lips.

"Really?" He questioned in disbelief. "You think me as outgoing and cunning as her?" He asked. Fawkes frowned.

"Maybe not after all." He admitted in the end, snickering at himself. "But you cannot ignore that she would suit you rather well." He commenced, voicing what many in the room had been thinking as they had seen them stroll together.

"Perhaps, but sometimes, opposites attract even more." He responded, thinking of Christine.

As he kept speaking with Fawkes, mainly about weaponry and strategy on the battlefield, he could see Joseph trying to get his attention in the corner of his eye. Tristan turned his head slightly to see what his friend was so frantic about. Joseph kept mouthing some words as discreetly as he could. He looked alarmed as he tried to point into one direction. Soon, Fawkes' voice and the general mumble and music in the room faded away as he made out the words Joseph was trying to communicate: _I found him!_

* * *

Trotting horses made their way through the dim light of the torches that lit up the road to Savoie's estate. Inside the elegant black vehicle, Christine sat, her hands held together in a final prayer that all would work out well. Her thoughts lay with her father as she prepared to enter the lion's den. Her nerves were wreaking havoc on her system and the only thought that kept her in the carriage was the thought of her father. She stared out the window, spotting the estate nearing, slowly. It stood radiant and beautiful, lights shining from its tall, wide windows. The faint music reached the carriage and Christine let the tune calm her as she kept playing with her skirts.

"I will be brave. I will be brave." She kept muttering to herself. She did not feel brave at that point, she was deathly afraid to return to court after having been away for a few months. Yet, as she kept repeating the reassuring words to herself, she started to believe them. She had survived court after her father had died, she would do so again. Christine already knew that most of the courtiers would be aware that she was yet to marry Tristan Hawthorne. She was sure that rumors were already floating around about her state of _purity_. She did not care. Because she knew herself best, and she was her own best judge.

Soon the carriage came to a slow halt and Christine looked up, startled. The light from the mansion illuminated the whole courtyard that they had arrived at. A red carpet extended from the main doors and was within the reach of the carriage. She felt stiff, unable to get out. After a few minutes, the driver got down from her seat and proceeded to open the door. The reassuring face of the woman came into view and she looked confused at first as she noticed that the young lady had yet to step out of the carriage. But when she caught sight of her terrified expression, her features softened as she understood Christine's predicament.

"Come, my lady. It is time, we are here." She said, trying to sound as encouraging as possible. She did not understand the full predicament of the young woman, but she knew enough to see that the place she was entering was not a friendly one. A gloved hand extended into the carriage for Christine to grip, she hesitated, but one deep breath was all she needed before taking it.

She slid gracefully out of the carriage. For the first time the driver got a good look at the blonde beauty and her eyes widened.

"If it serves to reassure you, my lady, you will indeed light up the whole mansion with your presence tonight." She said as she took in the dress and accessories. It coaxed a small smile from the lady who took a deep breath. She took one last look at the driver, squeezed the woman's hand and climbed the endless stairs.

All guests had arrived and so, the steward was not expecting anyone else. It was therefore that a look of confusion grew on the thin man's face at the blonde beauty before him. He heaved the giant pieces of wood open for Christine Vega to step into the hall and the warmth of the building. While inside, before he could say anything she spoke, her words calm and composed.

"I regret that I have arrived late. But I am expected." She said, hoping he would not question her. The man was so taken with her appearance that he did not argue with her and let her in. The driver stared in a frown as she saw that the young lady was now outside of her reach. She had done all she could to help her. As the giant doors closed, she felt her chest go heavy as she wondered what fate might be in store for the girl.

"Good luck." Was all she mumbled to herself as no one was listening before walking down the steps and toward the carriage.

* * *

Tristan Hawthorne had tried to move through the masses as quickly as possible toward Joseph. He was anxious to find out who the culprit was. It would bring him one step closer to finding out what was really going on in Wessport. If the man Joseph was looking for was in the crowd, then he was of great importance. It served to worry the masked man. For what could a lone count do, really?

It was not long before he was intercepted and forced to stay back. King James had sought him out and Tristan was not foolish enough to turn down a king.

"What has gotten you so energetic, Hawthorne?" Asked James in a merry tone as his cousin rested on his arm. They both had a smug smile on their faces as if they just had plotted something.

"Nothing, sire, I was merely seeking out an acquaintance." He responded, trying to sneak a glance at where Joseph stood. Alas, the other man had once more disappeared between the masses. Tristan cursed under his breath, feeling his jaw tense.

"You will find them later, I am sure." King James said, pausing slightly, thinking something over before continuing. "But tell me, gener… er, I mean, count," he quickly corrected, old habits were hard to get rid of. But Tristan did not mind. He preferred it more being a general than a count. He had been more kindly looked upon as a general.

"My cousin just commented how Angloa knows a great debt of gratitude toward you, yet we know almost nothing about you." He said. Lady Carina soon let her indifferent mask fall and Tristan saw genuine curiosity shine in her eyes. It was not good. For he knew very well why she was curious. Her eyes glided along the mask and Hawthorne felt his heart speed up. He did not know what to do if the king asked him to unmask himself then and there. He knew that declining such a request could cost him dearly. Yet, he knew that if he unmasked himself in that room the people in there would stare in horror as they would no doubt run out in terror and screams. He did not want a room full of Alan Moores'.

"There is little to say about me that might interest Your Majesty and Your Highness." He commented stiffly, clasping his hands behind his back and thankful that his flickering eyes were not visible to them at that moment. But his comment only served to further ignite curiosity in the man and woman before him.

"Surely something of interest could be said about you?" Carina asked, but she did not go as far as to inquire about the mask again. "Where are you from? Who were your parents? I think these are fair questions, seeing as my cousin has bestowed upon you a title, without questioning the purity of your lineage." She said coyly. The corners of her mouth curled into a small smile and Tristan could not make out if she said the last sentence in malice or just as a statement. King James looked at him with slight curiosity and the taller man felt the pressure grow on his shoulders as he saw no escape from the questioning.

"I understand," he said, trying to control his tense and irritated state. "I cannot attest much for my lineage. I never met my father and my mother scarcely ever spoke about him. You see, he wasn't really an interesting man, from what I understood." He continued, knowing fully well that what he said then and there would be known to all of Wessport in the morning, or even before the night was over. So he guarded his words. "But know that I am Angloan. My decision to come here and aid my country in the war was of patriotic sentiment and love toward this country." He said, twisting the conversation in his favor. King James seemed satisfied with the answer. Lady Carina, however, did not.

"And thankful we are that you did." The king adjoined. There was no more to be said and Tristan was not asked more about his past. As they were soon joined in by frivolous noblemen, he felt his gaze sweep over the crowd in an attempt to find Joseph.

A foreboding started irking its way up his back. As Tristan scanned the room, he suddenly felt his eyes drawn to the entrance. Gasps suddenly sounded as the music came to a halt. Men and women turned curiously toward the entrance of the room where a lone figure stood, proudly holding herself. Tristan felt his mouth drop slightly at the sight of her.

Christine Vega was dressed like an angel of ice. Her dress looked unearthly as it clung to her, the skirts falling down in a narrow waterfall and trailing back behind her. The dress was fully adjoined to the bodice and so expertly sewn that it seemed as if it had been made out of a sole panel of fabric. The seams blended into the fabric and remained unseen. The color was that of ice if that was possible. It was an ivory white bordering on light blue. The silk looked as delicate as a flower's petal. The silken fabric had a protective sheer textile overlaying it, making it seem blurry as if it had stepped out from a dream. The skirts of the gown billowed gently whenever Christine moved, like ripples in still water. The gown had no sleeves and the straps holding it up were slightly off her shoulders, showing the creamy white skin of the young, blushing woman. Her hair had been coiffed in loose ringlets and pearls had been woven into it. A silken ribbon, in the same color as her dress, kept her blond locks out of her eyes.

The crowd knew who she was, but all the gossip and malice seemed to die away slowly. They were not able to connect her to the same quiet and remorseful girl that they had seen at court all those months ago. Instead, she appeared before them on another plane entirely. Christine Vega seemed untouchable, unearthly. Hers was not the place amongst them, she looked innocent and pure, yet strong and determined. Her eyes seemed to search the room until she finally found who she was searching for. Tristan felt her lavender orbs meet his and he froze as the frost fairy floated toward him.

* * *

 **Note: thank you to all who have read the previous chaters, and a big thanks to the reviewers as well! I am having a great time writing this story. I hope you're having as much fun reading it ;)**


	13. Chapter 13

**A TALE OF ANGLOA**

 _Chapter 13_

* * *

 _February 5_ _th_ _\- Savoie's Estate_

A quiet murmur stirred in the silent hall. A place so big, so full of music, laughter and conversation had gone quieter than a graveyard. Curiosity as to what had caused this sudden change of atmosphere was not evident at first. But soon all eyes were drawn to the lone figure that stood before them, dwarfed by the grand entrance to the room.

Her breaths were deep and steady, her eyes were fixed on one face, one face that she did not fear in the sea of wolves that stretched out before her. Tristan's masked face was there, in the distance, reassuring her. Christine cared no longer if he would be angry with her. Another part of her screamed, she had gone too far, she should turn back and flee. But her eyes never left the enigmatic man in the distance. He dressed differently; he seemed like a different person. The dark, brooding man, dressed in bulky clothes was replaced with a tall, dark and lean gentleman, blending in perfectly with the rest of the crowd while still standing out.

Tristan felt his heart stop at the sight of the beauty that stood there, seemingly out of place. He had no time to register the murmurs that arose at the presence of Christine. All he saw was her. It did not take long for the anger to register within him. She moved gracefully toward them, toward the king.

The curious onlookers whispered further, for had it not been common knowledge that she had chosen to stay at home, out of sight? They did not know what to think of her presence. Many vile rumors had been floating around her for the past few days. However, when they looked at her, it was hard to believe such things about the innocent girl that graced the floor. Ladies stared in awe at her gown and many men could not help but feel their hearts stir at the sight of her.

The fabric had no brocade or damask patterns sewn into it, nor any unnecessary added fabric. It was simple yet extravagant. She looked like an ice angel as she carefully made her way through the throng as if she were a bride walking to the altar.

The icy beauty seemed invulnerable, cool like the winter that waged on outside as she softly glided toward King James.

As Christine inched forward, her face never changing from its emotionless expression, she could feel her eyes burn at the sight of the king once more. He had to accept her request. The way he eyed her mad her certain that he would listen. She felt something wanting to pull her back. Before her was the man that had sentenced her father to the gallows. He had been responsible for Charles Vega's death to some degree. She shuddered at the thought of how bloodied his hands actually were in the matter. Behind her calm façade she cried out, never having thought of it before. When the realization hit her it grew consistently harder to approach the monarch. Christine did no longer care for the whispering crowd that tried its best to stare her down. How could she face the king without breaking apart, thinking of what he had been responsible for?

She came to understand why Tristan had insisted she stay at home. The looks of scrutiny and judgment could be reason enough to keep her at bay. Yet, had he known that she would come to feel this way at the sight of the king? Had he known the horrible realization she had made? Christine would never know, for she would never dare to ask such a thing of Tristan. She was certain that after this little stunt he would lock her away forever. But she did not care.

"My dear!" Came the sudden voice of an older man to her right. Christine turned to see Duke Thomas Athar emerging from the crowd, offering his arm to her, to escort her the last of the way. He disregarded those around them that snickered. It was his way of protecting the young girl from the crowd.

The older man wore elegant clothing in deep red with golden patterns woven into the exquisite fabric. His body seemed thin and frail under the fine clothing. His white hair was, as always, neatly combed into place and his gentle, wrinkled eyes gave her a genuine smile. Lord Athar should not stoop to such low levels as to embrace the daughter of a traitor. But he did not care. The last time he had spoken with her was before the passing of her father. Charles Vega had been a man he'd come to see as a friend. Even though he was not acquainted with Vega's daughter, he felt sorrow for the young girl; for what she must have suffered.

"My Lord." She acknowledged, speaking for the first time, accepting his arm. Her voice was soft and gentle, never wavering, never frightened. Tristan could hear her from where he was standing. He acknowledged that it must have taken her a lot of courage to come to Savoie's mansion and to the winter ball. Yet there she stood, a stiff smile plastered on her delicate features. Athar took her hand on his arm and led her the rest of the way to King James. The monarch looked from the old duke to Tristan and to Christine in curiosity and amusement. He realized then fully how willing she was to clear her father's name. He had never thought she'd come this far to speak with the king.

"Your Majesty," began Athar as he showed Christine to the king. "I hope you remember Miss Vega?" The king certainly did. There was a noticeable change in the woman before him. Last time he had seen her she had seemed almost defeated, more inclined to do as others wished for her to do. Now she stood before him, seeming to ooze determination and confidence. Lady Carina noted it as well, and she rose an eyebrow at the young woman. It was never clear what the Angloan princess thought of the traitor's daughter.

"Of course." Said King James. He inclined his head toward her as if accepting her presence. After all, he had accepted her presence before in Wessport. "I thought you did not feel well. You fiancé made it seem like you wished to stay at home." He inquired, casting a sideways glance at Tristan, seemingly interested in what Christine would answer. It was clear to all that she had come and thus disobeyed her fiancé's wishes. What Tristan thought of the matter was an even bigger enigma as none could read his thoughts.

"I did, sire. But I decided to come, to accompany my fiancé." She answered. straightforwardly. She had to play her cards right. The king had to trust in her, trust in a traitor's daughter. She sneaked a glance at Tristan, wondering if he was terribly angry with her. But she could not read his thoughts.

"Your presence here is very interesting." Came the seductive voice of Carina as she stepped forward. "Most people would think it improper for you to show up here." She continued, her face as unreadable as Tristan's mask. The older woman swept a hand over the crowd that cast curious glances their way.

"I am not most people, your highness." Answered Christine honestly. It earned her an approving smile from most around her, even from Carina. But even if those around her seemed to tolerate her presence, for the time being, Christine did not let her guard down, nor get ahead of herself. In Wessport, people acted a certain way one day and then completely changed their behavior for the next one.

More people joined the secluded group; Lord Braun, Lord Alistair and Lord Savoie entered the little circle, curious to get to know the icy beauty better. Lord Braun and Lord Alistair rested their eyes a little too long on Christine for Tristan's liking. He had yet to speak, keeping to the back.

"Who might this charming young lady be?" Teased Braun as he let his eyes wander over her creamy neck and throat. He thought her a swan or perhaps a winter fay. Lord Alistair's eyes stared with more intensity at her lavender eyes, transfixed by them. His gaze soon drifted to Tristan. Alistair wrinkled his nose and frowned at the presence of the masked man.

"I guess they allow anyone here now, even those with lesser blood." He whispered to Braun, who fought hard to hide a chuckle. The exchange of words reached Tristan's ears as well.

Christine looked away from the men, not particularly happy at their sudden interest and attention toward her. She fought hard not to squirm under their warm gazes.

Lady Carina could not help but notice the stares Christine received from both men and she frowned. It was evident that Christine was uncomfortable receiving such type of attention. The way the young woman carried herself, the way she acted around the other men made it clear to the older woman: Tristan had been honorable and taken no liberties with the girl. She wondered if the masked man had even come close to kissing her. Her radiating green eyes looked at Hawthorne, even more intrigued by him now than before. She glanced back at Christine and let a smile overtake her face again.

The lords came to speak of politics, something that greatly disinterested Christine. She stood there, waiting for a chance to speak alone with the king. King James could feel the girl's eyes on him and he smirked at the attention. He kept sneaking sideway glances at her, wondering if she was keen on more than just formal pleasantries. He looked at Tristan again, who kept silent and tense as he took in what was said during the conversation. King James frowned. No, he would not take any liberties with the girl. If he did, it was clear that Tristan Hawthorne would be more than furious, and he did not wish to be in the way of that man. Even so, the king could not help but to close in on Christine, slipping out of the conversation unnoticed and starting another one with the young woman. He was interested why she kept glancing at him in such a way.

"I take it that politics does not interest you." He teased as he saw her eyes flicker to and fro the conversation. Christine jumped, surprised by his voice and his closeness. She took a step away from him, lowering her gaze.

"Not particularly, Your Majesty." She confessed. This was perfect, the king himself had decided to speak with her. It earned a chuckle from James as he nodded.

"I must agree with you there, it is a tedious subject, never changing, always revolving around the same problems." Christine did not know what to answer and found herself tongue-tied. It was clear to James that she was not particularly comfortable in his presence. He wondered why. Unbeknownst to them both, a third party was now putting all of its attention on their conversation. Tristan looked the other way, but his ear faced in their direction. If he concentrated on them, he could hear what was being said through the discussion and music of the room.

"Then, if politics is such a boring matter to you, what brings you here?" James asked, challenging her with his forward question.

Her large eyes dared to look directly into the king's green ones. She cast away everything she had been taught about court, everything she had learned through experience and dived into the abyss. But before she could say anything he stopped her, turning serious.

"No, don't answer. I know what you want to ask from me." He said, surprising her. Christine's lavender eyes widened. How could he have known such a thing? She had never uttered her plans or thoughts to anyone. The only ones who knew were Maria and Tristan. Slowly her mind started working after the initial shock. Christine came to realize that there had been plenty of moments where they could have been overheard by someone in the household.

"Then what is your answer?" Her voice was calm and collected as she uttered the words. Yet, her eyes told it all. James could see the pain, fear and sorrow reflected in them. Pain at the loss of her father. Fear for him as well and sorrow claiming the depths of her own soul.

"Although I found it intriguing that you would journey here for such a purpose: that is not why I invited you to Wessport. Your father was hanged by the crown for treason." He said firmly. There were no hidden motives behind his words. James spoke as sincerely as Christine had.

"I know, Your Majesty. Me even asking such a request is an insult and unthinkable. I am fully aware of that. But my father has already paid his penance. He has died as was your wish. But he may not be buried in my family's crypt, nor on holy ground. It would be my deepest wish to see him there, so that his soul may find peace and he may repent in heaven for his sins."

"What does your fiancé think of this?" James cast his eyes toward Tristan.

"He knows nothing of this, nor has he ever. If my request has offended you, then punish only me, for it was I who caused the offense, not Lord Hawthorne." James was taken by surprise. He did not expect Christine to defend Tristan in the process and take all the weight of such an action by herself.

"I see your struggle, my dear." He began, his tone already making Christine's heart drop. "But where would our country go to if all traitors' knew there would still be a heaven for them even after their death? I am sure they would all take action and commit treason on the spot."

"But he repented, sire. And does not the church forgive those who ask for forgiveness?" She fought hard not to exclaim as she inched closer to the king.

"I am neither a priest, nor do I control the church. I cannot give your father clemency…" commenced James.

"That is true, you are no priest. Yet, you are a king." Her face had turned into stone and it was evident that she was serious. James rose an eyebrow at the remark. Christine had decided that it was enough. She saw in his face that he was ready to decline her request. They young woman already knew what her request would mean for her personally. She had known the moment she walked in.

"Sometimes a king can be as powerless as a common farmer, believe me." He said enigmatically.

"Then my father's soul may never find peace?" She asked.

"You have nothing to offer me. That is how court works, Miss Vega. If you want your father to rest in his crypt, then return with something that might be of value to me." Answered James. His face was stern but deep within himself, he could not help but pity the girl.

"If you will have no use for her, maybe you would for me?" A dark, deep and rich voice said behind Christine. She turned around to see Tristan stand directly behind her, her mouth dropped as he spoke out in her defense.

"No." She whispered, barely audible yet James was close enough to hear it. His eyes got a dangerous sparkle in them.

She just realized what he had done. Christine had never meant to drag Tristan into this. She had never expected him to intervene. He was supposed to keep away from her.

James faltered. Tristan Hawthorne was another matter. The Count of Cadherra was someone he wanted on his side. Being able to hold something that would allow him to control him made the king curl his lips into a satisfied smile. He glanced at Christine.

"I think something could be arranged." He said, thinking it over for a moment. Tristan said nothing, just stood there, waiting for James to finish his sentence. "You and your fiancée will move into the palace. When some court issues have been settled, Miss Vega's father shall be allowed to be buried in his family crypt." He received some curious stares from the couple as both of them thought that it couldn't be all the king wanted from Tristan. "That is all I can think of for now." Said James, stepping away and leaving them alone.

They stood there a while, the world around them died down as Christine held her breath, waiting for Tristan to react. Her heart had sunk low in her chest and an immense feeling of guilt at her own stupidity washed over her.

Christine felt Tristan's gloved hand on her bare arm as he took it in his own. His grip hardened on her arm as he took her further to the side where none would not hear their exchange of words.

"This is why I told you to stay at home." He growled in her ear. Christine shivered at his closeness. He expected her to counterattack in foolish pride. But he only saw remorse in her eyes as she spoke.

"You should never have interfered!" Was all she could say, pulling her hand to herself, out of his grip. It caused Tristan's jaw to tense slightly, but he did not comment on her action. He wanted to be angry with her, he wanted to be furious at her for coming, for disobeying him. But a part of him understood her. He wondered if he would have acted in a similar way, in similar circumstances.

"You came for your father." He stated after the pregnant pause. Christine tensed as well, she did not want his help nor pity.

"I did." She answered.

"Just like in Adelton." He retorted curtly, reminding her of the great offense she had done toward him. When Christine was reminded of the way she had manipulated him she blushed in embarrassment. She had never once thought of asking forgiveness.

"I… What I did to you in Adelton is unforgivable but…" She collected her thoughts. Looking him straight in the face. "You should never have intervened for me. Now you are implicated as well. Why? Why did you do it?" There was real remorse in her eyes. Tristan tried to ignore those words.

"Do you know what it means living in the palace?" They had just lost their freedom, their ability to return home to a place of relaxation. The palace walls had both eyes and ears that would strain to listen to the lowest of whispers. The servants would be paying attention to every little detail about them from the way they decided to dress, to their choice of words to the way they acted. Worst of all was that if they had been both asked to the palace, it only meant that King James had something further in store for Christine.

"What you just did here, right now, with the king, was dangerous." He growled as he looked that no one was close enough to hear them. Tristan's tall form loomed over Christine. "Was it not you who warned me about court, of how one wrong word could be your end?" He said, wondering where her reason had disappeared to. Tristan knew her to be an intelligent young woman, so why was she throwing all away on the whim of one king?

"I do not care what happens to me anymore." She bluntly confessed. Her words seemed strained. It was almost as if she were trying to hide the force of the emotion behind them. "But I cannot let you fall with me as well." Tristan felt his heart sink low in his chest at her words. He had never known that she had been hurting so much. But was she so blinded by hurt and sorrow that she had given up on common sense and reason? He pulled her in closer, to such a proximity that it might have been considered inappropriate. They were lucky that no one seemed to have noticed the closeness of the couple.

"Why do you think I demanded that you stay back in Cadherra, or in the house? Because at least there you're safe from yourself," He growled deep in her ear, wanting to relay the gravity of the situation. Christine tried to break free, afraid that people might stare. "It is time you grew up, Miss Vega!" He hissed.

"I had no choice, my lord." She said in an emotionless tone. Christine felt her grip over herself slip. She gripped his arms tightly, looking straight into his masked face, a face she had grown accustomed to. "I cannot imagine that you would ever understand. But I ignored my father after his death. I despised him for having put my mother and I in such a difficult position. Yet it was _you_ of all people that made me realize that I should never have cast the memory of him away in the first place. I cannot let his soul suffer. He has to rest in peace." She finally let some emotion through, showing her weakness. Her fingers dug into his arms. Tristan felt his heart cry out for her as her pain revealed itself in her eyes, it mixed with his anger, confusing him as well. He let out a sigh he never truly knew he had been holding in. It seemed that the time for pride and arrogance was over. For here stood a broken woman, in body and soul. Tristan felt in that moment that he would endure any torture if it meant that Christine Vega would stop suffering and be happy again.

"I understand." He said. He pushed away his anger toward her. His understanding voice made her harsh grip on him lessen. "But you shouldn't damn yourself in the process." He reasoned.

"I swore that I would do whatever was necessary to save my father's soul." She explained, confessing what had been on her mind the past few months. Her words made him understand to what lengths she had been willing to go. "I would even have used you, despite it being wrong, to get here. I should never have done that." She said, as if again asking for forgiveness.

"But is it worth it even if it might be your end? You are being careless, not listening to your own advice you gave me before coming here."

"I'd rather have myself fall before dragging anyone else down with me." She admitted. "I was also prideful, I wanted to do it myself. I could never ask anyone to help me with such a heavy burden. Yet here we are, you stepped in," she pointed out. She understood what she might have dragged Tristan in to." It was all I wanted. But you shouldn't have to pay any price on my behalf." Christine said, in all the sincerity she could muster.

Tristan took her hands in his, pulling her in closer while his voice got lighter. It changed from otherwise being robust, and deep into a charming and suave tone. It flowed like melted butter as it ran smoothly from his tongue and it sent shivers down her spine. It was unlike anything she had ever heard from him before and it made her evermore curious to see just what hid behind that mask. For surely such a voice could not just belong to the beast she had come to know.

"You have acted brashly, for you should have come to me. But, if this be our destiny then I could not imagine anyone else I'd rather be dragged down with. It was my choice to interfere and my own actions led me here as well." He said, as determined as Christine had looked a few moments ago. But she never knew the meaning behind those words.

The world around them had long since ceased to exist. It was the first time they had put their differences aside, together with their individual pride and arrogance. Christine had found strength to confess her troubles to a man she never knew would understand them. A breath of relief escaped her as she realized just to what degree they had come to understand each other. Yet, she felt guilty for putting him in such a situation.

Tristan felt that his burden had only grown. Yet, he did not care if it meant that Christine would always carry that look of relief on her face. After having spoken, stood there in silence, stepping away from each other slightly. The tension had lessened, and it seemed Tristan and Christine had gone through a transformation. After tonight they had overcome a difficult step in an otherwise shaky relationship.

"Lord Hawthorne," Came the serious voice of the monarch as he interrupted. Christine quickly stepped further away from Tristan, keen on keeping decorum and being proper. Tristan bowed his head at the king's presence. He had no wish in dealing with the monarch at the present, for he knew what awaited from the man. There would now be demands placed on him so that Charles Vega could be properly buried.

James placed a heavy hand on the masked man's shoulder. He looked at Christine and then back at Tristan. Both of them had managed to raise his curiosity and alert him. Especially the young Vega woman.

"I will see you then, at my palace as soon as possible?" Tristan realized that James was not requesting, he was now demanding.

"Of course, Your Majesty. "He said, accepting the offer went against every cell in his being, yet the words floated effortlessly from his mouth.

"I am sure that Lord Hawthorne is most anxious to move in as soon as possible, as an honored guest." Lord Athar suddenly said, backed by Fawkes and some other present lords. He sent Tristan a look, telling the other lord not to speak against what had been decided. It was evident that the older man suspected what Hawthorne really felt about the ordeal. Athar himself, together with other present lords, most belonging to the council, had been _offered_ the same deal to stay in the palace for the time being. It was evident, now more than ever, that the monarch was growing cautious of those who surrounded him. Even Lord Braun, Alistair and Savoie had been invited.

Alistair, who had been standing close to the monarch had widened his eyes and fought hard to control himself as he heard what had been said. He leaned closer to Braun, rage taking control of his senses.

"The king invited _that_ man as well?" He hissed, looking bitterly at Tristan.

"Control yourself, Alistair!" Braun hissed back. "I understand your sentiment, but we owe him a great deal, he…"

"He is a commoner, not of noble blood. How can the king disgrace us even more, by now taking him into his confidence?" Alistair spat. "The Cadherra lands should never have been his to start with. They should have gone to the Viscount of Bannria. Or to the dukedom of Zoria. But not to this man." Alistair belonged to one of the lords who felt that Tristan's presence at court with a high title was a disgrace to the Angloan court. But to his surprise, Lord Braun defended the masked man.

"He is the reason we still have James as a king, and not Henry. Be grateful for that. I suspect they would have taken our lands in a heartbeat." He looked irritated at the younger man. "Let it go, Alistair." He whispered back. Both of them soon lost themselves in the crowd, getting away from the pleasantries between Tristan and the monarch.

The king was ecstatic as Tristan confirmed his stay at the palace. James informed him that he would send his personal servants to help them move in more swiftly. Their personal apartments would be prepared in a matter of days and soon Tristan could partake in all the palace's activities.

Before the king could ask for more favors or question them further, Tristan thought it pertinent to retire. The night had been a fiasco, ending in more problems than solving them. He had no idea where Joseph had gone to and at that moment, it was the least of his worries. He needed to sort things out with Christine before they actually found themselves in that cursed palace. He promptly excused himself.

"With all due respect," he commenced, as polite as he could. "I think it is time for my fiancée and I to retire for the evening." He finished. He wasn't even bothered with the curious looks he got. Christine had scarcely been there an hour and already he was coaxing her home. People around them wondered if Tristan Hawthorne was angry with her. They were sure that she was to suffer once they returned home. Sly grins spread on their faces as they hoped that Christine Vega got what she deserved. The king excused them, bidding them a heartily farewell, watching thoughtfully as they left the dance and laughter of the night.

They took quick steps toward the entrance of the building. Servants handed them their respective capes and the chill of the night overwhelmed them as they stepped outside where the carriage and Tristan's horse would stand waiting for them.

Before having exited the ballroom Tristan had taken one last look around, watching if Joseph was hiding amongst the masses. But the young man was nowhere to be seen. He felt his muscles tense and wondered if something had happened to him. Christine did not speak as he had urged her to the entrance.

Tristan had the servants latch his gray stallion to the carriage and got into it with Christine. The driver had a look of worry as she saw the masked man disappear into the vehicle after the young woman. But she did not say anything.

As the horses started moving through the patted down snow, Christine hugged herself inside the carriage. The short road home would seem long to her. Her cape was thin, solely for being worn in warmer weather, yet signora Coticelli had insisted on her wearing it. When she started shivering, Tristan took his thicker, black cape, and wrapped it around her as he could not bear watch her freezing. He leaned slightly forward in the small space, his form hugging hers momentarily as the fabric draped around her and he adjusted it. She was surprised by his act of kindness.

"Thank you." She said after a while, her words were referring to more than just him giving her his cape. Tristan understood it as well. He did not answer at first, instead he relaxed back in his seat, enjoying the tranquility the carriage and the winter night had to offer.

"Do you know what it means to move into a royal place?" He asked her again, interrupting the rocking peace of the vehicle. Her eyes sprang up, alive and intense.

"Of course I do!" She exclaimed. "I had to survive there for a while just before I met you."

"Good. If we are to survive in such a place, we have to be truthful with each other from now on." He knew it was a blatant lie on his part. He would not let her know all the troubles that lurked in the palace, nor his mind. She did not need to know.

"Yes… "She hugged the cape tighter around her and looked out at the moonlit landscape outside while they started entering the city. Her lips turned into a thin line as she glanced at his face, masked and hidden from her. "You mean we should trust each other?" She asked, while pointing at the mask. Tristan looked away, letting a gloved hand caress the leather that covered his visage. It was a subject they had never touched. Frankly, Tristan never thought that Christine would ever bring it up. It had turned into a taboo subject, that no one ever dared mention, except for Lady Carina Fell, of course.

"Yes, trust in each other to some extent." He made it very clear that any questions about the mask were off limits. She could feel him change from relaxed to tense once more. The Tristan she knew, dark, intimidating and enigmatic seemed to, once more, replace the man from before. Christine made a mental note, she would not mention anything close to the mask again. She had never known that the subject would turn out to be so offensive to him.

"Very well." Was all she responded. She did not argue with him nor did she question him about the mask again. Tristan was seemingly thankful that she let the subject slide.

The carriage moved through the silent quarters, toward their home. Its atmosphere was changed. For the first time they sat in silence, enjoying each other's company ever since they had met. It seemed like turning tides were ahead for them. For while Christine Vega and Tristan Hawthorne might finally get along, a storm was brewing on the horizon. Tristan clasped his hands together looking out the window with worry reigning in his mind. Yes, even if they had been hitting some bumps here and there, everything was going too smoothly at this point. This was definitely the calm before the storm.

 _February 7_ _th_

The open windows let the chilly February air seep into her room. A faint sound of chirping birds could be heard as she opened her eyes. The birdsong was soon washed away by the other sounds of the city. A smile plastered her delicate lips as she got out of bed, despite herself. Christine ignored the cold and went to her wardrobe, selecting a comfortable, warm gown to wear.

The other night felt like a dream to her. Even if it had failed, she was happier than ever that she and Tristan had finally managed to get along. There was no more misunderstanding between them and for the first time she was not worried about him. He had seemed so gentle, so understanding. It was to the extent that she thought it could not be the same Tristan. She frowned, hoping in earnest that it was not her mind playing tricks on her. Christine could not bear for someone else close to her to turn their back on her. His actions in the carriage had been so unlike him.

The door opened and in walked Maria, seemingly happy as well. She had been waiting up in the kitchens, for her mistress to return two nights ago. Maria had been more than shocked when he saw Tristan Hawthorne climb out of the carriage, promptly followed by a blushing Christine. She had been wrapped in his cape, looking as if she were dreaming. Her eyes had been heavy-lidded and the smile on her face would not go away. Even his lordship seemed more relaxed than usual. He was not as intense as he generally tended to be. When Maria greeted them she received a curt nod from Tristan before he disappeared into the mansion. She had cast a questioning look to the driver, who had only shrugged, as clueless as Maria as to what had happened in that carriage.

"Miss, his lordship is asking for you." She said as she got a view of the gown Christine was holding. It was one of her older, more torn ones. "What about the other gowns signora Coticelli made for you?" She questioned as Christine put the gown down. Her demeanor was restrained, her mind caught up in a train of thought.

"Yes, you are right." She said. "Bring me another one." Came her rugged voice, still stiff from sleep. The maid rummaged through the wardrobe, looking amongst the new dresses to find a suitable one. She had a pensive look as she searched for an appropriate piece of clothing.

"Something on your mind, Maria?" Asked Christine.

"Yes… something important." She said while thinking hard. "Oh well, it will come to me."

Maria finally found a red ruby gown in exquisite silk. Brocade pattern in fine copper thread had been incorporated into the rich fabric. It hugged Christine's lithe body. It bore a slightly more rounded neckline than the traditional square one. The waist was better blended into the gown, running like one continuous stream of clothing instead of being separated into a skirt and bodice as was usually the case. Her hair was placed into a soft up-do and she was soon walking down for some breakfast.

Christine walked into a chaotic scene. The entrance of their home was swarming with men and women, running in and out, letting the chilly morning air shake all four corners of the house.

She saw his tall form; wide shoulders tense as he stood in the entrance of the mansion, watching in contempt as servants of the royal palace loaded trunks of his belongings on a cart. He stood in a broad stance with arms folded showing his disapproval. The servants promptly walked past Christine as she descended the last steps. They made their way to her rooms, shown by Mrs. Rochester who wrinkled her nose at their intrusion into the home.

"What is this?" Questioned Christine as she saw the group of people walking around, moving and displacing trunks, swords and armor.

"It seems we are moving into the palace quicker than we thought." His voice came out in a low growl as he stared furiously and helplessly at the servants taking over his home. Tristan did not like it when he was not the one in charge of his own person or his own things.

"What?" Exclaimed Christine as she looked in shock at the scene before her. "So soon?" She inched closer to him, leaning casually into his ear, as not to seem suspicious. "What are we to do? Are we ready for this yet?" She whispered. Her voice and breath tickled his inner ear, and he fought the involuntary shiver that descended his spine.

"No." He whispered back. He could hear her swallow hard as they both stood next to each other, watching the scene unfold. It was soon that they found themselves in a carriage, together with Maria. It took them away from the secure walls of the manse and toward the threatening building that was the palace. They spoke little. Both of them had a thousand thoughts rushing through their heads as the carriage and carts moved through the city that morning.

Tristan had yet to see Joseph, and he started wondering if something had happened to him. The other night his horse had been taken, and he was said to have returned home. Yet, that night when they returned, Joseph was nowhere to be seen, nor his horse. The following day Tristan had sent out some men to search for his friend.

Tristan was awoken early that same morning by a frightened footman who had only dared to knock on his door, never wanting to set a foot inside the room. He had revealed that a large group of palace servants were impatiently waiting outside, with orders from the king to help with packing. Rooms in the castle had been prepared for them.

He wondered who else had been forced to exchange their home for apartments in the palace. He was sure that before the day was over, both he and Christine would find themselves in new trouble.

Christine, on the other hand, was not looking forward to spend time at court. Being at the ball was already hard enough for her, and she hadn't even had to interact with anyone. The women of Wessport could be rather petty if they wanted to. She knew she would spend most of her time trying to avoid them as best as she could while still trying to reach the king. For even if Tristan had agreed to help her, she would still try one last time to get close to him and ask him herself. If she could achieve such a thing, then no one would be burdened by her troubles and Christine could rest easy. For she had, by herself, managed to help her father find his final resting place.

It was a sunny and warm day, enough to make the snow start sweating under the intense rays. The carriage pulled up through a tunnel that would take them to the elegant palace that stood on a hill, overlooking not only the city, but the flatlands beyond it. The driver pulled up into the first courtyard, past the gatehouse. Tristan kept his eyes on the men outside, many soldiers were presently guarding the front of the palace.

They soon found themselves ushered out of the carriage and into the grand building. It stood tall and impressive before them. Its towers reached high in the sky and its architecture spoke of refinement and good taste. It was a clear contrast to some of the other, more robust castles that could be found in the country. The façade had an impressive door leading to the Courtyard of the Kings. On the front there was a niche where the image of a saint has been placed. Yet, both of them felt dwarfed by the stacked stone and enormity of the place. Christine sneaked a look at Tristan, wondering what was going through his head. He held himself tall, looking as proud and arrogant as ever as he had the servants take care of their things. He offered his arm to Christine without looking at her and she accepted it, both of them walking toward the entrance.

"Whatever happens, we must always seem unaffected by what might come our way." He said in her direction. It was barely audible, only for her ears. She squeezed his arm, signaling that she had understood. Christine Vega would wear a mask from now on as well.

They both walked proudly into the palace. Tristan had foregone his usual robust military clothes and dressed more refined. The fabrics he wore were fine and more exquisite, tailored to fit him better and showed off his figure better. He only had a dagger that clung to his left hip, no sword graced his person that morning and he felt naked without it in such a place.

They were greeted by a palace maid. She reacted as many maids would usually do at the sight of Tristan, casting her eyes to the marble floor, never daring to look directly at him. He stood like a dark, tantalizing shadow next to a radiant Christine. They were led to what would eventually be their quarters. As they passed through the hallways of the building, some courtiers grazing the grounds for a morning walk who resided in the building as well got a glance of them.

"There they go, the Beauty and the Beast." They snickered in audible whispers while fanning themselves with exquisite feather fans. Christine ignored them completely, just as she had done during the winter ball. Tristan did as well, thinking it beneath him to ever react to such words. But Christine could feel him tense at the nicknames they had received. She had once thought him a beast when she had not known him. But now he was something else, something more. He was proud, arrogant yet noble and kind. He was the savior of Angloa, the Lion of The North. She was amazed that after such feats, he was still seen as an outsider. Christine knew how sensitive the nobility was when it came to pure blood. Tristan's lineage was obscure, unknown. She figured that they would never accept him as Count of Cadherra since he was not born a nobleman. But she didn't care. He had shown to be worth more than ten men when it came to many things. She grew consistently happy that they were finally on the same page; their differences had been put aside, and that they had made an effort to understand each other.

The maid promptly stopped as they had reached a secluded wing of the palace. It was an open corridor with several doors lining it. The young woman took out a key from her blue apron and opened the elegantly carved door in front of them.

"Your apartments, my lady, my lord." She announced as the door swung open. They revealed an open, elegant space; something akin to a parlor. It had a high roof and a sitting space, with a round wood table, neatly polished and cushioned chairs placed around it. Some settees were placed in one corner by a window, probably for leisure reading or napping. The marble floor was covered with various light colored carpets in beige, green and spots of pink. The motifs were floral arrangements; vines twisting and sprouting, finishing in a small delicate flower. The windows were tall, letting in the morning light. There was a harp in one corner and Christine looked at it with distaste. It would be one thing she would not touch there, she had never learned to play the instrument well, and she never would.

There were several doors in the room, but the maid never walked in to show them around. Rather, the thin blonde looked like she wanted nothing more than to get away from them.

"Supper will be held after the sun has gone down. Someone will come and get you." She squeaked and then left them alone in the opening of their apartments. Tristan walked in first, looking around. There was a fireplace in one end of the room where a fire was loudly cracking away. Christine and Maria walked in after him, closing the door and turning the key so that they might not be disturbed yet.

"My lord, my lady, I shall go search for the servant's quarter and familiarize myself with the palace. I will return as fast as I can." Maria excused herself, daring to leave them alone as she slipped away. After the door closed behind her a general quiet fell over the place, only the wind on the windows could be heard faintly.

"I hope these apartments have more than one bedroom." Christine confessed after a while, alarmed at the mere thought of having to share a bed with Tristan. He never turned around as he answered her, he only kept strolling around, examining the room.

"Hmm..." Was all he uttered consumed in his current task. He walked around, prodding the walls, looking behind portraits and vases that stood on the tables lining the walls. He even looked behind the tapestries.

"What are you doing?" Christine walked to his side, curious as to what he was searching for. His gloved hand kept knocking on the wall, listening to the change in sounds. He did not seem satisfied with what he heard and moved on.

"For hidden passageways or eyeholes where someone might spy on us." He said as he kept feeling the walls. Christine rose an eyebrow in disbelief.

"That would be too obvious." She began. "Surely they wouldn't put us in a room where… " She cut her sentence short when Tristan found a switch and a small part of the wall by the fireplace swung open, revealing a secret passageway. Her mouth turned into a thin line and her face became pale. "Oh." Was all she could manage to say. Tristan, on the other hand, felt nothing but a growing anger for King James. Was this how he was to be treated now? With suspicion? He promptly shut the door again, replacing the tapestry that had been hiding the split in the wall. He turned around to see a pale yet angered Christine as well.

"Not a word of this to anyone." He began.

"Who would I even talk to about this?" She questioned him, avoiding his gaze. Christine sat down in one of the chairs, tired. She thought that all of this was her fault. They were being suspected because she had asked the king something she shouldn't have. And now the monarch probably thought them to have an ulterior motive. But Tristan knew what this was about. He was not at ease by his discovery at all. He knew about a possible conspiracy in Wessport from Saxton. This made him realize that the king was familiar with it as well. But it seemed that King James thought Tristan was somehow involved in the affair. His gloved hands turned into fists as he rested his tired head against the fireplace, staring into the hypnotizing flames. Their heat radiated through his mask and seemed to caress his weary bones.

"Let's just keep looking through the rooms, to see if we can find more unpleasant surprises," Christine said as she got up from the elegant chair she had been sitting on and walked over to Tristan, coaxing him away from the fireplace. They started inspecting each room. There were a total of three rooms in their apartment. The parlor also led to a smaller bedroom, probably for Maria. The closer she was to her maid, the better she would feel.

She found nothing peculiar in the room. She went to the door next to it. It was a larger bedroom with elegant furnishings, probably dating back to the last century. The bed was wide, and it seemed comfortable. She walked along the walls, painted in a deep green color and covered here and there by faded tapestries. It was decorated in themes of nature; flora and fauna were seen everywhere, from the tapestries to the beams that held the roof intact. Portraits of landscapes and castles dotted the walls and in one corner was even a blurry mirror, an item of great luxury. Another side of the room saw several tall wardrobes, capable to house dresses for an army. She opened them and felt along the back of the furniture, knocking to see if she could hear any hollow sound. She finally came to the wall where the bed was rested against. Christine walked along the entire length but never found anything that suggested that it hid a secret compartment or passageway.

Meanwhile, Tristan had gone through the other door. It led him to another bedroom, he guessed it to be his. It was furnished in a similar style as Christine's, but with red walls and faded tapestries draping them. He searched each wall meticulously and when he arrived at the one by where the bed stood, he found a latch that opened a hidden door. He looked through it, only to see a narrow hall ending in darkness. Tristan closed it and his thumb and index finger went to pinch the bridge of his nose. He sensed a growing headache as he sat down defeated on the bed. The masked man was realizing how both he and Christine could end up exchanging their current rooms for cells in the dungeons if he didn't get the upper hand in the game soon.

* * *

 **Note: Thanks for reading, as always :) I hope you liked this chapter as well. Don't forget to R &R if you liked it ;)**


	14. Chapter 14

**A TALE OF ANGLOA**

 _Chapter 14_

* * *

 _February 7_ _th_ _– Wessport Palace_

The great hall had numerous large windows looking out across the ward. The range had an unusual, unified roof-line and, with a taller roof than the rest of the palace. An organic, flowing Gothic structure was prominent in the large room. It was different to the Blue Room of the palace, where the king would usually hold court. It was older and had, until recently, been otherwise abandoned. But as King James had invited so many guests to his extended palace, he felt it prominent to once again put the Great Hall to use.

Along the walls, included a total of 62 trophies: carved, gilded wooden panels illustrating weapons and the spoils of war, many with Masonic meanings. Beneath the carvings, were lain long tables with individual chairs that would seat the incoming guests for supper. The chandeliers, old and worn, were made in heavy cast iron, holding dozens of candles to light up the impressive room. The head table stood on a platform. It was reserved for the royals and most important members of court.

It was already dark outside when the courtiers swarmed into the lit space. Minstrels and troubadours were already playing in the middle of the room, a space that had been made exclusively for the musicians. King James sat down seemingly satisfied at the sight before him. Most of the nobles he had asked to spend some time living in the palace had accepted. Lord Athar was seated next to him, he sat next to Queen Tabitha, on her right side. General Fawkes was by Athar's right side, reserved such a seat for being the most highly decorated general of the Angloan army. To the king's left sat Lady Carina, Lady Miriam and Lord Braun.

When Christine Vega and Tristan Hawthorne walked in side by side they were taken aback by the impressive room. Alas, they never showed signs of feeling at a loss. Instead they elegantly walked to an empty space, far away from the head table. Tristan pulled a chair out for Christine and soon sat next to her. She could feel evil glares to her left and right but she never acknowledged them.

"Mind if we join you?" Came the merry voices of three men who had walked up to the couple. The chairs surrounding them were empty for none wanted to disgrace themselves by sitting next to Christine Vega. Others had no courage to sit next to the masked form that was Tristan Hawthorne. Yet, Walter Durun, Simon Rajac and Jonathan Linahan had promptly walked up to them. They had already been acquainted with Tristan and did not fear him like the others.

"My lords." Acknowledged Tristan as he got up to acknowledge their presence. Christine got up as well, curtsying before them while giving them her hand. Each of the eager men planted a kiss and Rajac even dared giving her a charming smile before sitting down one chair from her left. Christine was soon joined by another woman around her age to her left. It was a slightly shorter brunette. Her large, brown eyes spoke of refinement and gentility.

"My wife, Lady Amanda Rajac." Simon introduced as the other woman sat down. Christine got up and curtsied.

"Oh no, do not get up on my account." Said the woman kindly and made Christine's eyes widen in surprise. She never thought the lady might actually speak with her. The group was soon in wild discussion. Walter and Jonathan had soon engaged Tristan in a heated discussion about warfare where Tristan mainly gave a curt nod here and there as they showered him with questions. Simon had engaged in a discussion with the neighbor to his left, leaving his wife, Amanda seemingly alone, without someone to talk to, just like Christine. They were soon served their food and Christine began eating away at the various meats, used to eating in silence and alone.

"I have not seen you here before." Came the soft voice of the woman next to her. Christine had to swallow her wine in a big gulp to be able to respond quickly. But she was not fast enough before the other woman spoke again, now putting all her attention on the brunette.

"I know, of course, who you are." She stated, rather forcefully. Christine sighed inwardly. Yet another courtier who would give her nothing but sorrow and trouble. She put down the spoon and knife on the metal plate and turned to face the woman. If it was what she wanted, she would give her a hard time.

"Of course." She said curtly. Showing her distaste. It surprised Amanda as her eyebrows arched.

"Oh, do not get me wrong. I am new to court, I only married Lord Rajac but a few months ago. And when I arrived here in early December, all anyone could ever talk about was Tristan Hawthorne and Christine Vega." Her voice was not as forceful as before. Her oval face beamed of honesty and an innocence one could only find in someone who had not seen the ugliness of court life yet. But Christine still did not trust her.

"Then you know all you must about me, I assure you." She took another sip from the rich wine, growing tenser by the minute as she felt the other woman's eyes on her.

"Well I dearly hope not, for they had nothing good to say about you. But then again, they never have anything good to say about anyone." She looked rather pensive as a thought must have crossed her mind. Christine found the woman to be most peculiar. But she never voiced her opinion. She remained silent, while feeling Tristan rest his glance on her every so often. She was sure that he was aware of the conversation going on next to her and she was sure that he found it amusing.

"Well, then there is your answer." She finally retorted after a pregnant pause. Her tone remained neutral, never showing her state of mind.

"You know," said Amanda as she leaned slightly toward Christine, a serious look plastered over her face as if she were to share some vital information. "I might lean in a little closer and lower my voice and maybe they'll think us plotting." She said, trying not to giggle in the process. Christine turned to meet her face, inches from her own and jumped back in her seat. It earned an honest laugh from Amanda. "I was only in jest, I assure you. The women of this court are always so serious, and they can be horrible sometimes." Amanda said in a whisper, afraid that her husband would hear her. "I might not have gone through what you have, but believe me, I can imagine how ugly the court of Wessport can get." She explained. Christine sighed and put down her knife again.

"You shouldn't be seen talking to me." She said after a while. "If you still wish to remain in your current circles."

"I talk to whomever I please." Amanda sounded offended at the thought. Christine thought her naïve. "It is my choice who I choose to consort with." Those were words that reminded the young blonde of herself and for the first time she saw her on naïve self, reflected in Amanda. But perhaps it wasn't naivety, perhaps Amanda Rajac had always been an outsider and knew what it was like.

"Then don't come crying back to me when they reject you." Christine nodded in the direction of the ones sitting closest to the head table. Those were the most refined men and women of the country. Most were also the most horrible people she would ever meet.

Tristan was lending one ear to Walter as he kept on talking about weapons, namely about the rapier and the flintlock, a potent fireweapon, something Tristan had left at Adelton Hall. But his attention was undoubtedly fixed on the head table. He was watching the king as he prattled onward with Athar. There was something off about the scene before him. It took Tristan almost an hour to figure out that James had scarcely touched his food or his drink. Could it be that the conspirators had tried to poison the monarch? Or could it be that the king had grown so paranoid that he suspected poison? Whatever the case, it did not bode well. If the king had any suspicion against Tristan and Christine he had to act soon before he really did end up in a cell. He had to speak with Athar, the man Saxton had talked about. It was time he revealed himself as Saxton's ally and gain his full trust at court. Tristan now realized that he was way in over his head and needed all the help he could get, preferably from men like General Fawkes and Athar.

Close to the head table, sat Alistair, next to Otto Savoie and some other lords of his acquaintance. His eyes kept drifting toward the end of the room, where he saw Christine Vega conversing with a brunette. Alistair's eyes burned at the sight of her. She was a disgraced traitor's daughter, yet, that did not take away from her grace and beauty.

"It is indeed a sad thing when a flower like that is wasted on a man like Tristan Hawthorne." Came the tenor voice of Roland Launël, a duke from the western provinces of the country. Otto Savoie's lips turned into a thin line and Alistair's eyes squinted at the sight of the masked man.

"I do not know what the court or the king sees in him." Said Alistair with malice in his voice.

"Nor, I, the man is nothing, just as low as any commoner from the lower circle." Launël sighed as he reached for his goblet. Savoie sighed at the conversation.

"Was it not Lord Braun that told you to ignore him? What point is there in being affected by Hawthorne? He isn't out after any of our lands nor titles, so why care? There are many at François' court who were not born noble that claim a high title. All of the kings in Europe give away such prestiges to the men they think are worth it." Savoie retorted, defending Tristan to some sense. Alistair was close at snapping at the Frenchman, but kept his cool.

"Are they titled as Counts? Are they as accepted at court as Hawthorne is here? His presence is a disgrace to our ways and traditions." Alistair began, only to be interrupted by another man, Marcus Martell.

"A few hundred years ago, most of our ancestors were commoners and of low birth." He cut in, before going back to his wine and food. Alistair did not remove his eyes from the masked man.

"That was centuries ago, this is now." He said through gritted teeth. None of the other lords spoke against him, as most agreed with his sentiment. But they were reasonable enough to understand that it was the will of the king that Hawthorne and his fiancée were present at court. And they knew to not publically go against the wishes of a king.

As the night proceeded, jesters were brought in to amuse the men and women who had finished off all the food. The jesters provoked loud laughter and soon they retired from the tables, eager to mingle amongst eachother. There was new gossip emerging. Most of it was about Christine and her presence in the palace. But other tasteless rumors floated as well, whispers about Queen Tabitha circled around. Others spoke about Lady Carina or other prevalent ladies at court. Whatever the case, men and women would not hold their tongues as the wine and mead flowed during the evening.

Christine wished for nothing more than to retire back to her room and bed. She had no idea how she would live like this, in this golden prison. She glanced over at Tristan, in a discussion with Simon. Maybe it would be bearable with him by her side. She soon excused herself, under the concept that she had a headache. Christine would rather sit by the fire and read or let her mind drift away to a far place, where no troubles could reach her.

Simon saw the young woman make her way to the entrance and gave a small smirk at Tristan.

"It seems the feast did not agree with her." He commented. "I cannot blame her." Simon swept his gaze over the crowd, watching their mouths move, their tongues sharper and pointier than any blade made by man.

"She is strong, Rajac. They do not touch her with their words." Tristan said as he watched her leave. He knew their words were not what distressed her. He knew she still felt guilt for them being there. But he didn't blame her, how could he? His jaw tensed as he remembered when she had shown up at the winter ball. She had never paid any attention to the malicious glances of the courtiers then, just like she had not done during supper. If he was certain about something, it was that she would never break under the pressure they put on her.

When he saw Athar leave for the night as well, Tristan excused himself, ready to retire. But he would first catch up with the man, to agree on a meeting place where they could discuss matters away from prying eyes and ears. It was time for him to come clean as Saxton's ally. Tristan was very interested in what information Athar could give him regarding conspiracies at court. If James was now in danger of being poisoned in his own palace, the situation had grown serious.

He hurried after the old man. But as soon as he had reached the corridor he lost him in the labyrinth that was the palace. Tristan let out a frustrated sigh. How could he near Athar now? It would be harder than before as they would be under more watch. The conversations they had had after the lord's assembly could barely be called dangerous. They were friendly exchanges. What Tristan wanted to say to Athar now, however, could cost them both dearly if they were to be overheard. He had to find a way to speak to him, and soon.

He stalked through the corridors until he finally found the door to his quarters. When he walked in he saw Christine sitting by the fire, reading a thick tome, completely engulfed by the words of the pages. She noticed him enter and looked up.

"It seems the feast did not agree with you either." She remarked as she saw him itching to take off the constricting jerkin and doublet.

"Since when have they?" He replied sarcastically. Tristan looked around the elegant room, frowning behind his mask.

"Where is your maid?" He asked, noticing that Maria was not there.

"She has gone to sleep, why?"

"I need her to get a message to Joseph tomorrow as soon as possible." Tristan said, turning serious once more.

"Then write it up and I shall give it to her before I retire."

"No, nothing written." Tristan sighed. A written message could easily be stolen by another palace servant. He paused. Maria could be trusted, as well as Christine. But not anyone else. "Tell her to rely to him that I need to speak with him as soon as possible as he has important information for me."

"I will." Christine could sense the urgency of the matter. But she did not ask more about it and bid her fiancé goodnight as he retired.

Tristan walked wearily to his chamber and closed the heavy door behind him. The last thing he saw was Christine's peaceful face next to the fire, relaxing as she read her book. Her hair had been taken out of its updo and was hanging loosely around her shoulders. The long tresses looked like delicate spirals of gold. Her face was thin, for she had lost a great deal of weight in Adelton. Yet he could see how the color had returned to it and how her angular cheeks had started to take form again. The dark circles under her eyes were less prominent now as well. To him, she could not look lovelier and a smile touched his lips as he finally shut the door.

There was only one lit candle in the room and Tristan slowly tore his clothes off his body, letting them fall with a silent thud on the carpeted floor. He would pick them up in the morning. As he came to his bed he pulled the heavy curtains around it. The masked man sneaked a careful glance on the side of his bed, where the hidden passageway stood. He stood there for a moment, a feeling that something was about to happen would not escape him. His body tensed as the foreboding took him and Tristan knew then that he would have little sleep that night. He stripped himself off his clothes until he stood naked. He found a chemise and slipped it over his head. He still felt the chill creeping up on him and decided on adding on some comfortable, lose wool hoses for the night. His weary body climbed into the bed and he shut the curtains fully.

Tristan lay awake for several hours, plagued by the constricting mask. At one time, when he was half asleep, he woke up, gasping for breath. He wanted the damn thing off! His gloved hands fumbled with the lacing at the back, every second felt like he could not breathe. When the leather finally came off Tristan drew a deep breath and leaned forward. His hand went to his forehead and he damned himself. How Sofia would laugh at him now, at his weakness. It had been weeks, even months since he had been bothered so by his mask. Tristan took one look at it and threw it aside, finally falling into a deep slumber, now being free from it.

It must have been much later during the night. The whole palace was sleeping, even the guard struggled to stay awake as their heads bobbed where they stood.

Tristan's chest rose and sank peacefully as he rested in a profound slumber. But even in his deepest sleep he was alert. A creaking brought him out of his dreaming state. When his eyes opened to darkness he was confused. He had to wait a few seconds to remember where he was. The light of the candle danced violently as a gust of cold air seeped into the room. The wax had dripped everywhere and the light was at its end, almost dying out as there was no more wax to fuel it. When he realized that someone was in his room he did not hesitate and went for his mask, quickly pulling it into place.

As soon as he had made a movement a figure had opened the curtains and jumped on him, straddling him. Tristan tried to reach for the knife he kept under his pillow, sure that the figure was an assassin, sent there to end his life. But before he could reach the sharp piece of metal a soft mouth came crushing upon his. He was so surprised by the kiss that he went completely stiff. Soft, hot lips ruled his, taking them as his own. He could feel the other person savor them, exploring them. It was then that he felt two hands, roaming his body. It explored his powerful chest, slowly going south, past his abdominals, reaching his pants and unlacing the front. Tristan's eyes widened as he realized what the person was doing. His initial thought was that it was Christine, coming there to give herself to him. But her actions were too much forward to be those of a virgin. I kicked himself, her action were too much forward to be those of Christine in any case. This was someone with much more experience. He took the hands and wrestled the person, wearing a long cape and deep hood. Tristan managed to get her under him and straddled her, keeping her arms above her head as he pushed back the hood.

He saw the lustful green eyes of Carina Fell as she glanced back at him, eager for him to continue.

"My lady?" He uttered, confused by her presence.

"Do not stop on my account." She said, indicating that he continue what she had started. As he had straddled her, her cape had fallen away, exposing a naked body. He immediately got off her, looking away, throwing his covers over her so that she might regain some of her modesty. He saw the passageway, open and letting the cold of the castle walls in.

"You should leave the same way you came." His voice was stern and dark. It only made Carina yearn more for him, for his touch, for the heat of his body. The lust shone brightly in her eyes as a smirk grew on her lips.

"I will not leave until you give me what I came for." She said, leaning back into the soft pillows of the bed, inviting him to join her with her eyes. But what her eyes could not see was the disgust Tristan had for her, a disgust that was hidden by his mask. But his mask could not hide the emotion in the tone of his voice.

"You will not get it from me. Leave now, while I ask nicely." He growled, like an animal ready to pounce. But instead of frightening the princess, it only seemed to make her keener on being his.

"I never ask things twice, Tristan. And I always get what I want." She started, removing the covers and the cape that protected her modesty. She rose to her knees and displayed her naked body for him. "That little virgin cannot please you as I can. Surely you would not doom yourself to a life without pleasure?" She said, inching closer to him where he stood, by the foot of the bed, reaching out to touch him. Her hand grazed his neck and went for the lacing at the back of his mask. Her eyes shining brightly and intensely as she started tugging at the cords slowly.

"Christine can give me something you could never do." He said, removing her hand from the back of his mask and stepping away.

"You would turn down a princess for a traitor's daughter? You would turn down me for that squeamish girl who has yet to be kissed?" Carina laughed, never showing if she'd been offended or not.

"I never invited such attentions from you, my lady. While you still have some dignity left, I suggest that you leave now." He said sternly, motioning toward the passageway and handing the naked woman her cape. Carina's emerald eyes shone intensely. She looked at the mask and smirked, a thought passing through her head.

"You do not have to remove the mask, Tristan." She purred. "I wouldn't mind bedding a masked man." It was a whisper, barely audible, yet loaded with emotion. His nose wrinkled as his impatience for her grew.

"Get out, while I still ask nicely." The game had ended and it was evident to Carina. Yet, she did not seem bothered by it.

"I always like a challenge." She said calmly as she took the cape from Tristan, heading for the passage. Before she left him she turned around, her emerald eyes digging into his as her smile never faltered. Her dark tresses framing her delicate face. "And I always get what I want, in the end." She put the cape on and closed the door, taking the cold air with her, leaving Tristan to stand there his hands in fists. He took one look at the bed and snickered at it. He went to gather his clothes and started dressing himself.

 _February 8_ _th_

The sound of hooves alerted the guards at the front of the palace. A lone rider stopped just before the great entrance and dismounted. His face had lost all its color, dark circles under his eyes spoke of sleepless nights and the stubble on his face suggested that he had not been able to take a minute off even to shave himself. His sand colored hair was in dismay, sticking up like a haystack.

Joseph got off his horse, clenching his teeth as his weary body protested. He had neither slept nor eaten in days. The only time he had returned home was for a change of horse and for some water.

"Quick, I seek audience with Tristan Hawthorne." Was all he said, his voice rasped and lacked the usual light tone it bore.

"Who asks for him?" Said the guard suspiciously, looking Joseph up and down, not fooled by his appearance. He knew farmers that looked better than he.

"Joseph Winston, fourth son of the Viscount of Bannria." He said without pause. "Now let me pass, for I have urgent business with his lordship." The authority in his voice made the guard disregard the first impression he'd heard of the man and a commoner did not speak with such conviction.

"Of course." He said, letting the tired man pass. Joseph was escorted into the palace and shown to Christine and Tristan's apartments by two palace maids.

"What business do you have with his lordship?" Asked the oldest one.

"Just some problems with his estate back in Cadherra." He lied. She did not believe him but accepted the lie either way.

"Here we are." She said, showing the door. The younger maid knocked on it, announcing Joseph's presence. Maria came to open the doors and her face lit up as she saw Joseph standing there.

"My lord!" She exclaimed. But his face told her to be quiet. The other maids soon left them but Joseph had been warned about the palace so he guarded his words carefully.

"I did not think you would come so quickly." Said Maria as he closed the doors behind him. Christine walked into the parlor and saw his disheveled state.

"Joseph, what happened to you?" She asked, real concern evident in her voice. He only chuckled.

"If I knew that all it took for you to speak once more with me was to look like this, I would've done it sooner." He said, gesturing at himself. She sighed and guided him to a comfortable settee for him to sit and warm himself by the fire.

"My pride impeded me from speaking sooner with you." He put up a hand, telling her to stop.

"I was a fool, too concerned with my own skin to even think about how such a selfish action could have affected you," he began. Joseph never knew how much his words had hurt Christine. He had turned her friendship down from fear of gossip. "We will sort this disagreement between us. But first I must speak with Tristan, it is crucial that what I have to tell him reaches him as soon as possible." Joseph said, looking around, expecting the masked man to appear at any moment.

"But, pray tell, where is he?"

"You just missed him. He went seeking lord Athar a few moments ago." Joseph jumped up, adrenaline rushing through his body.

"When did he leave? How long ago?" He asked in distress. Christine was taken aback by his sudden change in demeanor. Joseph had gone completely pale and beads of sweat started forming at his temples. He was jittery, as if wanting to run the first chance he got.

"Well, I am not quite sure, maybe ten-twenty minutes ago. He went toward lord Athar's personal quarters, in another wing by the west end of the…" She said, Joseph was out the door before she had finished her sentence.

"What was that about?" Asked Maria worriedly.

"I don't know." Christine was worried as well. Whatever it was, it could not bode well.

* * *

Tristan's determined footsteps echoed throughout the hallways. The wide, open spaces were lit by the dim light that sifted through the thick windows. Snow and frost lined the glass, making it hard for the sunbeams to penetrate. It gave an eerie glow, made stronger by the dull light of the candles, placed in the holders that had been built into the walls.

He knew how to approach Athar. The whole night had been spent on thinking up a strategy to meet the man on his own terms. It was time they got together and placed all of their cards on the table. Tristan needed someone he could trust, now more than ever.

His mind was overworked as he had had no sleep due to Lady Carina's sudden visit. He tried to push the thought of her away, her lips pressing against his, her body molding against his own and her fervent hands searching him as if he were an unexplored piece of land. He shook his head at the thought away, for it only brought disgust to him. Tristan had not felt the touch of a woman in a while, since coming to Angloa. Yet, he knew who he wanted in his bed, giving him soft kisses and running her hands along his body: it was not Carina Fell.

His thoughts drifted to a blonde beauty with eyes of soft lavender. He had let his guard down around her. He knew she was not afraid of him anymore. They had reached a new place in their relationship. After Christine's escapade, her demeanor toward him seemed changed, lighter somehow. There seemed to be mutual respect. She respected him now just as he respected her. Yet, he wondered if she could ever come to feel something more toward him. He had gone into the engagement thinking that he could never feel anything for Christine, nor anyone. Yet, everything he believed seemed to be questioned again and again as he could not control nor stop his own feelings. In the end, he grew afraid of them for he did not want her presence to plague her mind. He felt like an entirely different person around her, calmer and less arrogant. Tristan knew then that that woman brought out a better part of him, a person he wanted to be in reality. He had never wished to be a stranger in a mask, terrifying those around him. She had made him see that, in a way. Tristan now knew who he wanted to be. He wanted to be honorable, and command respect. He wanted to perform his duty to his king. It was one of the reasons he had decided to stay in the palace; because he felt an obligation toward the young monarch. The other reason was because he had made a promise that would benefit Christine and stop her from making more foolish decisions.

He arrived at the wing which held Athar's apartments. The old duke had asked for simple accommodations, to everyone's surprise. He had only taken one room with an attached parlor, in the upper west wing, away from where most other guests were. Tristan's feet had taken him to that corridor. He walked toward the door hopeful. The masked man would ask the old duke out for a ride and have them get far away from prying servants. It was then that he would begin speaking in earnest with him.

His silhouette fit the height of the door as the weak sunbeams shone through the window behind him. Tristan was about to knock when he heard running steps at the far end of the corridor. He wondered who it was and turned in that way, curiosity taking hold. It was more common to send a servant over than go himself, but he knew they could not be trusted. He did not have a good explanation for his strange presence in the corridor. His worries were swiftly taken away as he saw Joseph appear before him, like a ghost returned from the dead.

"Joseph!" Exclaimed Tristan in surprise.

"Do not knock on that door." Said the other, stopping to catch his breath. He looked around the empty hallway and then back at Tristan.

"Where have you been?" Asked Tristan angrily.

"It's a long story, but that is best if it isn't told here. Come." He motioned Tristan to follow him and cautiously they made their way out of the palace. It did not go unnoticed by Tristan how weary Joseph looked. Once they were seated on their respective horses and far away from the curious ears of the palace Joseph spoke.

"I know who Captain Fletcher reports to." He said, looking serious. When Tristan waited for him to continue Joseph lowered his eyes and rose a nervous hand to run his fingers through his dirty hair.

"I had no idea why you sent me after him, to follow his every step. So the night of the ball, when I recognized the man and wanted to tell you, I knew I wouldn't have a chance, you were always surrounded by people. Besides, I wanted to make sure it was him. So I went back to following Fletcher. He was passed out drunk by his house. I took the opportunity of going into his rooms and searching for something of value, something that might prove what I had seen. For I was not sure…" Joseph's eyes looked as if they had seen a ghost. "Would you like to reveal to me what this is all about?" He asked, as he took some notes from the inside of his cape. He handed the small stack of papers to Tristan, crinkled and torn, showing that they had been gathered together in haste.

Tristan read through them. His eyes widened as he scanned the pages. On them were lists of provisions for weapons and armor for soldiers. Others spoke of gathering together civilians into a small army within the upper city circle. They were plans for overthrowing the castle.

"Someone is planning to take over the castle." Joseph said, confirming what was already written down. Tristan steadied his horse, who grew alert as his master grew tense.

"It is much more than that Joseph." He said, letting worry seep into his voice. "Someone is conspiring against the king, and it seems that they're planning to overthrow him as well." Joseph's eyes widened.

"Who was it? Who did you recognize at the ball?" Tristan asked cautiously. The world seemed to slow down until it came to a stop. His heartbeat had sped up in anticipation for the answer. Whatever name be uttered now, Tristan knew he had to take action against that man.

Joseph gave him a shaky sigh and his hands closed into fists as he could not even look Tristan in the eyes while speaking the name.

"It was Lord Thomas Athar."

* * *

 **Note: Thank you kindly for the reviews. I posted earlier this week as I'm lloking to finish the fic before the end of February at least! :) We are slowly but surely closing in on the end. If you liked it be sure to R &R ;)**


	15. Chapter 15

**A TALE OF ANGLOA**

 _Chapter 15_

* * *

 _February 9_ _th_ _– Wessport Palace_

He had no wish to continue arguing with detached lords about a situation they did not understand. Tristan had nothing against the members of the war council. It consisted of seasoned war veterans who had a connection to the land and its people. They truly lived amongst them and he felt that those coronels and generals should be integrated into the lord's assembly. He had heard better ideas about military actions and diplomacy that first hour than he had during the last few days at the lord's assembly.

Just as the war council had ended, Tristan headed with Fawkes towards the assembly room. He spoke little with the man, for he did not trust him anymore. Fawkes was too friendly with Athar. They had known each other for years since before Magnus was king of the land. Such a friendship was stronger than anything. It was almost like a kinship, almost like they shared blood. He suspected Fawkes did not know of Athar's betrayal, but he couldn't be sure. Tristan wondered. If Fawkes knew about it or was made aware of it, would he take action or ignore it?

As their heavy footsteps echoed through the crowded hallways in the central part of the palace, they met up with some other lords heading toward the same direction. Athar joined them as well and the masked man fought hard not to seem too tense around the old duke. He could not believe Athar was involved in a plot against the king. The old man was someone he'd grown to quite appreciate and even look up to. In some sense, Athar reminded him of an older family member: wise, witty and understanding. The old man had given him advice, he had welcomed him at court with open arms. Perhaps that was only more cause for Tristan's concern; Athar disguised his true agenda too well. He felt helpless, going against such powerful men. He was sure that more were in on it. If he had scarcely slept before, he could not even shut his eyes now. Worry tore at his very being and he wondered what he had gotten himself into. He should be taking Christine and running away from Angloa as quickly as possible before the inevitable events unfolded.

As they gathered in the room, he felt the air loaded and heavy as always. Tristan's presence seemed to cause that effect, for wherever he went, quiet stares and nervous whispers arose. Tristan had paid little attention during the assembly. He wasn't unaware of the glares he kept receiving from Lord Alistair.

Cardinal Thorpe had just returned from Rome. He kept on talking about the benefits Angloa could reap from the Vatican if the country was willing to donate more money. Surely God would see the humane gesture and make more good luck befall the country. Most lord only murmured words that were too quiet to make out. Cardinal Thorpe always tried to coax some money from them for the church.

The assembly was soon over and the lords exited the room, only a select few remained, chatting with the king, Athar and Fawkes being two of them.

Tristan walked out, wanting to get away from there as quick as possible. He heard a warm tenor voice and footsteps fall in behind him as Linahan called out for his attention.

"My Lord Hawthorne!" he said, running to keep up with Tristan's longer strides. The man smiled kindly, the corners of his gray eyes crinkling slightly as his face genuinely lit up. It was strange for the masked man to see such a sincere reaction of joy in someone in his presence. "Would you care to accompany me on a ride?" he asked. Just as he had uttered those words, the other tensed considerably. It was evident that he was requesting more than a ride. His eyes spoke it all, he wanted to be away from the castle, away from any servants who might listen in on an otherwise private conversation.

"I do not have the time for such a thing right now, Lord Linahan," Tristan excused himself. He had no wish to hear what the other man might say, especially if it might get him into trouble. Linahan grew impatient and put a hand on Tristan's shoulder, stopping him.

"What I want to speak about is of great importance," he whispered, looking around to make sure that no one was close by. "It has to do with our mutual friend," he said knowingly. Tristan stared like an unmovable statue, letting his silence speak for him and finally walked away. He did not wish to hear more from Linahan, anything the other man said could implicate him. He did not know if he was trustworthy.

"Wait!" Linahan yelled behind him. He ran up again to walk beside him. "Saxton said you…" he began but before he could continue Tristan grabbed him by the collar. He pushed him up against the wall so he was on eye level with him. Linahan's frame was smaller than Tristan, his stature almost half a head shorter and the bigger and stronger man had no problem crushing him against the wall. His feet were left to dangle, a few centimeters from the marble floor. Linahan's innocent eyes widened in surprise as he stared at the masked face in fright, grabbing hold of Tristan's forearms so he wouldn't choke. The eyes bore into his and for a split second he saw a crazed animal hiding in those depths. There was something so eerie about the raw rage pooling from his murderous orbs that made Linahan wish he'd kept quiet. Many had spoken about Hawthorne's transformation as he arrived in Wessport. The beastly general who they'd been so used to hear had, as each tedious day passed, transformed slowly into the shadow of a gentleman. His transformation was so gradual that they hadn't noticed it. But soon people noticed how they didn't recoil as before in his presence. He inspired more awe than fear when he stalked the corridors. But Linahan saw that the beast had never fully disappeared, it was only dormant, more controlled than before.

"Never speak that name in my presence ever again. I do not know what plans you have with Saxton. I do not care. But if you know what's good for you, you will refrain from giving away what friendship you have with him. It could well be considered treason," Tristan hissed in his ear, making Linahan's eyes widen further in fear. He could feel his whole body shiver and he closed his eyes, wishing for the presence of the other to disappear. It was a wonder he did not soil himself then and there. Never once had he thought that Saxton's name would stir such rage in the other man and Linahan knew to never approach him or the subject again.

Tristan released him, throwing him mercilessly on the ground and frowning in disgust as the other man gasped for air, his shaky breath revealing his horrified state. Linahan did not take too long to compose himself, he only wanted to get away from the masked fiend. As if his life depended on it, he got up and ran in the other direction. He never looked back at the dark, masked form who rested his head against the cold stone, feeling a headache growing in the back of his head.

* * *

"Give him another bowl, Maria," came Christine's commanding voice as she directed the servant. Joseph sat on the beige settee by the fire. He was draped in several furs and blankets, shivering as the maid finished feeding him the warm chicken broth that had been brought from the kitchen. She rose from her seat and took the wooden spoon and bowl with her to the kitchens to refill them again. Christine sat down next to Joseph, placing a cool hand on his burning forehead.

"You strained yourself too hard this time, Joseph," she murmured as he hugged the blankets closer around him.

Joseph had fallen ill after he had given the news to Tristan. A fever had overtaken him from the strain of not having slept nor eaten for three days and as they had returned from their ride. The young man had fainted, nearly falling from his horse. But he, of course, argued that he had only had a dizzy spell, for strong men like he never fainted. Tristan had helped a weak Joseph to their apartments and even given his bed to the feverish man. Christine had frowned when her fiancé murmured that he could not sleep, anyway. He had left him in Christine's care the morning after. The young woman had done everything she could to bring the fever down and get some sustenance into the sick body.

"It was necessary," Joseph argued faintly, still too weak to properly raise his voice. It came out like a small rasp, scratching his throat uncomfortably as he uttered each syllable.

"I suspect you will not tell me what you did to make you end up in a state like this," she asked, sighing as she looked out the window, disappointed in the secrecy of both men. Even if she knew, it was best not to talk openly in the palace. But the blonde could not help as she grew more curious by the minute. Joseph only shrugged.

"I see," was all she said, her face in a pale mask as she rose from where she sat and paced about the elegant room. Joseph could not help but to admire her figure as she walked around, clearly unsettled. She kept fumbling with her hands, smoothing the front of her pale yellow gown as she squared her jaw. She had never been good at hiding her emotions.

"Maybe I cannot speak of what I was up too these last few days, but there is another issue that has to be solved," he said weakly, through chattering teeth. Christine stopped by the window, her back facing him. She stood close enough so that her warm breath would fog up the glass. She traced figures in the fog, placing half of her attention on him.

"I want to yet again ask for your forgiveness, Christine…" he began but was cut short by her. It earned her full attention.

"I forgave you a while ago, Joseph." There was a sadness in her voice he could not place. She turned around and came to sit next to him. "I forgive you again. I need our friendship," she confessed. "It has been very lonely without you. I miss our talks and our walks." Joseph was surprised by her answer.

"I thought you would hate me forever," he confessed.

"I never hated you. I was hurt and disappointed. But there are many things I have come to learn these past few months," she argued. She opened up slightly, just as she had done in the early days of their friendship.

"When I arrived in Adelton, my world came crashing down and I didn't handle it as well as I could have." Her eyes flickered as she spoke, it was hard for her to confess her weaknesses.

"I should never have cast you away to save my own reputation. It was foolish and dishonorable of me." He could not even face her and Joseph silently cursed at his own cowardice.

"But it is done, and I have forgiven you. So let us not speak more of it." She grabbed his feverish hands, and a smile touched her lips. "What you need to do now is to get well, so you can stand by Tristan against whatever you two are fighting." Her words made his eyebrows arch questioningly.

"I may be in the dark, but I am not foolish. This is Wessport, I suspect there might be something afoot here, or else Tristan wouldn't seem so worried all the time," she whispered in his ear. She had seen how her intended had aced these past few days. He was as stoic as ever, but living in closer proximity with him offered her a more personal view of him. He was tired, from the way he talked to the way he held himself. His mind was not as quick as before and he seemed worried about something. It was big enough to unsettle him at night for she knew he did not sleep. Sometimes she could hear him stroll around in the parlor, putting more wood on the fire and pouring a glass of wine for himself. Christine never spoke of it, but the whole ordeal made her guilt rise with each passing day. Tristan worried because of her and she knew not what to do.

Joseph knew why Tristan wanted to keep Christine out of the loop. But he himself suspected that she could be a great ally now more than ever as they found themselves short in that department.

 _February 10_ _th_

A low murmur surfaced throughout the assembly room as they were once again discussing the document put forth by King James. Lord Braun, Alistair and the others who had yet to sign had once again come up with another excuse to not give up their soldiers. They argued that their soldiers gave them their freedom. They were lords and should have access to an army, for it had always been that way. The feudal system worked, they argued, so why begin to tamper with it and create an uncertain future for the country? The baffled lords around them did not know what to say at first. Many of them agreed. Those who agreed were questioning their decision to sign the parchment. Having a king with so much power could not bode well for them. The lords in the room soon came to the question about their social structure; a delicate subject that was rarely talked about. The men who spoke went into a philosophical debate about ethics rather than politics: was it right that only a few in society benefited and the majority suffered?

Tristan joined in after a while, unable to keep quiet much longer. He had not always lived in luxury. He knew well how it felt to suffer because no food was available because he had no money to pay for even a piece of bread. Most of what he had earned in life, he had earned by hard work, by failing and then getting up again. He had seen many times how mothers and fathers took the food from their mouths to feed their starving children. The few times he had wandered the streets of the lower circle he had only seen poverty and misery. The same could be said for the outskirts of the cities. He had brought up the poverty he had seen in the streets of Wessport, and other Angloan towns as well. But Wessport managed well to show the excess of the nobles and the way they treated the peasants who were the pillars of society.

Alistair was visibly upset as Tristan spoke his mind. A seething contempt and distaste for the masked man that had grown substantially since his return to court had finally taken Alistair to his wit's end. The young lord got up from his seat and pointed an accusing finger toward him.

"What would you know about it? Of course you would be on _their_ side. A man who cannot even openly show his lineage does not deserve the title of a count, much less be called a lord," he said through gritted teeth. Those were words he had waited to speak for a long time. It felt good to release them, in the presence where all could hear them; where all could watch as he publically humiliated Hawthorne.

"But what he speaks of is the truth." Athar tried to steer the sudden outburst in another direction. The old duke turned to the king in plea. "Your Majesty, the people suffer. How can we work as a society when most of the subjects starve?" he pleaded. "Here we only speak of war and battles, of money and diplomacy, yet we forget the most important part: the people," Athar finished. Tristan tensed at his words for the man spoke the truth. But how could he agree with him when he knew what Athar was secretly planning? He'd kept away from the older man for the past day, trying to figure out what his next step was. He had sent a letter to Lucius with a trusted messenger. Lucius would take Alan Moore to Saxton and then come to Wessport: he needed all the help he could get.

Alistair dragged at the collar of his doublet muttering incomprehensible words. He ignored Athar's plea. He seemed only interested in one thing, and that was insulting Tristan.

"Just because you have won some battles it means nothing. In my eyes, you are still a commoner, a peasant, for all I care!" he spat, enraged.

Tristan had heard Alistair speak ill of him before. He was no fool, although, he paid little attention to the rumors; Alistair's dislike for him was widely known. It was evident that Alistair had his little speech prepared. It seemed others agreed with him. Some lords present did not understand how the king could favor a man like Tristan. He was not one of them, he was not noble. He could be a peasant's son for all they knew. Therefore, his presence had only been tolerated so far, until the king had invited him as well to live in the palace with his disgraced fiancée. They could go no longer accepting such men at court. But it had only been Alistair who had dared to speak up until then. Yet, there were other lords who took offence on Tristan's behalf. They knew how much Angloa owed to his victories on the battlefield. He had guided the country in the defeat over the English.

Tristan didn't take it to heart. He disregarded Alistair's words and ignored him. He thought what many others already knew: Alistair was a pompous fool.

"You see?" said Alistair, turning to those who would listen. James grew visibly sour as the lord continued, but he did not stop him. "He thinks himself better than I for he will not even speak up to defend himself!" Alistair turned to face Tristan once more. His face twisted into a malignant frown of disgust. Maybe Alistair dared to speak in such a way because of Tristan's transformation. He wasn't, just as Linahan had thought, the beastly general in bulky clothes that could make a man wet his pants with one look. He dressed like them now, talked like them now. But, like Linahan, the other lords soon discovered that that was never the case. For a lion would still be a lion, no matter what you did with it. And it seemed like Tristan had never been tamed by the court, against popular belief.

The room had gone silent and tense as all now paid attention to Alistair. "You have no place here on this council, Hawthorne, just as you have no place at court with that disgraced fiancée of yours," he uttered. There were no murmurs nor whispers now, just a stupefied silence as the men took in the severity of the insult. As soon as he had finished Athar rose from his seat, gravely insulted on Tristan's behalf. Other lords glared at Alistair, for it was more than evident that the lesser man was trying to provoke the other.

"I suggest you shut your mouth, Lord Alistair, if you know what is good for you." Athar hissed, starring the younger man down. Tristan growled inwardly. How false Athar was. Here stood the conspirator himself, now speaking out on his behalf. He ignored him, for he wished nothing more than to distance himself from the man. He wondered what Athar would gain from a _coup d'état_. The old man probably had good backing: taking down a monarch without placing someone else of royal blood on the throne was not easily done.

He switched his gaze to Alistair and a low, animalistic grow rose from the back of his throat. He was tired of trying to fit in with these men. It was evident that most would not accept him. Tristan had always abhorred what the mask made him. He had always inspired fear mixed with respect up at Castell, during the war. It was a façade that worked to his advantage, but it was someone he knew deep down he could never be his entire life. There was one part of him that knew he was the masked beast they all saw. But another part of him knew he was more than that, much more.

The seconds dragged on as all waited with speeding hearts for his reaction. The lords closest to him inched away centimeter by centimeter as his leather gloves creaked when hands turned into fists. He knew what he wanted to do. Tristan stared down on his gloved hand, itching to remove the garment.

When the tension seemed unbearable, someone to his left tapped him on his shoulder and handed him something: a glove. Tristan looked up to see Rajac smile a characteristic grin: he looked at Alistair and then back at the glove, as if approving whatever Tristan was about to do. The masked man never showed his surprise at the gesture. It was honorable: Rajac knew Tristan would never expose his bare hand to the assembly, by giving his own glove he had also given his approval.

The masked man proceeded to step out from his row and walk toward Alistair with confident steps. He lurked toward him, his eyes staring intensely ahead. They oozed poison and rage just as his breath sounded like a hungry panther's, ready to attack its prey. One hand rested on the fine handle of his sword, curling around it tightly as he squared his jaw. The other gripped the leather glove firmly, muscles tensioning in anticipation. He came to stand right before a flustered Alistair and his eyes started burning with an intense fire as he drilled holes into the other man. They all knew what he was about to do but the men in the room still gasped as he cast down the glove without a word, all the while looking Alistair directly in the eye. The leather garment lay on the marble, looking small and fragile. But the impact it carried made the adrenaline in Alistair's blood rise to dangerous levels: it was either fight or flight.

A general silence befell the room. The air grew with a choking tension and it seemed as if time itself had stopped. The blood that coursed through Tristan's veins gave him renewed strength, he stood taller, more menacing than ever. He loomed over the lesser man like menacing shadow, extending over the entire space between them. After a while Alistair had recovered from the initial chock, for never had he thought the masked man capable of issuing a challenge.

"I would never," hissed the other, as if the mere thought was beneath him. Alistair could not help but smirk a little, he was so arrogant that he knew he'd win against the masked man if he chose the weapon.

Tristan said nothing; his stoic silence and low growl spoke more than words ever could. His lack of words only served to unsettle the men in the room. All lords present were at the edge of their seats, or strained to hear every syllable that was uttered between the two lords. James leaned forward as well, looking back and forth between Alistair and Tristan, not making any move to stop them. His breath was caught in his throat as he watched the silent battle rage on. The king was curious to see where the whole ordeal was going. Cardinal Thorpe was silent as well. This was no matter for the church, this was a matter between men. He had only seen the masked man a handful of times. The god-fearing man gripped his cross tightly in his hand; praying in silence as he was certain he saw the shadow of Lucifer himself loom over Alistair.

"Pick it up, Alistair, or are you afraid?" Said someone at the back. Tristan recognized it as Rajac's voice. He still stared at the other man with the same intensity. Alistair looked away for the first time, becoming aware of how much of a threat the raging beast in front of him truly was. None of the lords knew of the restraint Tristan had over himself to not jump on the unsuspecting lord.

He spoke, at last. The words unexpected and made several lords jump in their seats as the dark harsh voice clawed through the loaded air.

"I care little of what people say of me unless it is a direct insult to my face as you have done now." His voice extended like a darkness in the room and seemed to suck out the warmth. The air was different, loaded, like a bow on a taunt string, just waiting to be released. The light seemed a shade colder, like clouds had just covered the warm beams of the sun that otherwise penetrated the room. It was evident that the masked man was enraged, but fought hard not to pounce then and there on Alistair.

"Bringing my fiancée into this just cost you your life, my lord." Alistair still made no move to pick up the glove, but now out of fright instead of pride. "If you do not accept my challenge then I will consider you a _coward_." His words coaxed some stifled gasps from the men in the room. Athar watched with glittering eyes at the display. General Fawkes could not hide the satisfied grin on his face at Tristan's word, proud that the man had been so quick to speak up for himself that time. James clasped his hands together and rested his chin on them.

"We are waiting, Lord Alistair," he said after a while, for Alistair had yet to pick up the glove. His eyes scanned the room, but he only found faces of contempt, for many waited for him to decline, and thus confirming his cowardice. Alistair let his pride overtake and he bent to pick up the glove, causing yet another murmur to extend as words traveled from one mouth to the other.

"I accept your challenge, even if it is beneath me," he said with his nose in the air. He motioned for Lord Braun who reluctantly stepped forward as he looked at Tristan. "Lord Braun will be my second." He said through gritted teeth. "Who may yours be?" he said, expecting that none would step forward. But he soon frowned as a baritone voice boomed proudly.

"I will be his second," came the voice of Fawkes.

The whispers arose to a murmur and soon voices were in heated discussion at the events that had just unfolded. A duel between Alistair and Hawthorne made the lords of the room anxious and some started betting on the spot. Fawkes and Braun set up a time and place for the duel. Braun had thought it best to do it at the start of the following week, at dawn.

James frowned. Dueling was legal and common practice in Angloa. However, it was the first time one had been uttered in the presence of a king. He would not attend although he wanted to. James sneaked a few coins in Athar's hand and murmured: "I place my trust in Lord Hawthorne." His eyes twinkled and Athar gave him a sly smile back, nodding, pleased. The commotion in the room soon died down.

"Next week at sunrise the challengers will meet at Morrow's Glade, outside the city," said Fawkes in a loud voice.

"Very well," James spoke up, impatient. "Now that this little matter has been settled, let us continue with what we're supposed to do; which is to solve issues in this country," he frowned, looking out over the crowd, making them go quiet instantly. He glanced at Braun, Alistair and the other lords who had been unwilling to sign. "I want that document signed before the month is over or I will personally confiscate your armies and part of your lands," James said nonchalantly. He was the king, he was to be obeyed. Braun only inclined his head in acceptance and submission. Alistair looked as if he had just bitten into a lemon.

Cardinal Thorpe got up. "If I might have the word then, as we go on to more _pressing_ matters?" he commenced, looking at the king for approval. James leaned back, tired and bored once more. He wouldn't have minded having the duel between Alistair and Tristan right then and there.

"Go ahead, Cardinal," he said. A smile grew on Thorpe's plump face.

"There was another reason for my visit in Rome. This mainlander I spoke of before parting is gaining more followers by the day. We are lucky no such fanatics have yet arrived in Angloa, but it is only a matter of time," Thorpe began. "I urge Your Majesty to do something about them, before it is too late. The Holy Roman Empire is already seeing internal struggles with these Protestants."

"What can we do?" asked James.

"We can start by banning his writings. They are already circulating the streets of Wessport," Cardinal Thorpe said, alarmed. "We should also consider banning this Luther from entering the country."

"I highly doubt he would want to come to Angloa."

"Can we be sure of that?" asked the Cardinal.

"Very well, ban him, but do not make it official. Have them search each entering ship for him, I am sure there are some who know what he looks like. Angloa does not need more problems than it already has."

Thorpe sat down, seemingly satisfied by the king's decree. Yet, something at the back of his mind irked at him. He worried that the words of this man would not go away easily.

* * *

Christine let the thread glide in and out of the as she worked it with her broidery. She made sure not to make eye contact with any other lady in the room as she sewed with thread and needle. A woman in a beautiful taffeta gown of turquoise and dusty yellow brocade was playing the harp in one corner, accompanied by another lady playing the lute. The tone was solemn, and the music floated heavy through the air in a melancholic manner. It did not serve to cheer up a concerned Christine. She knew Tristan was involved in something, or he had discovered something that was going on behind closed doors. One part of her wanted to find out what it was and help in any way she could. Another part wanted to keep quiet, for she knew the situation they had found themselves in were due to her past actions. She let a sigh escape her, feeling the other ladies in the room cast her a glance, whispering amongst themselves.

"You seem very solemn today, Lady Christine." Came the deep, seductive tone of Carina Fell. It was the older princess who had, out of nowhere, invited Christine to come and pass the afternoon with her and some of the other guests of the palace.

"Of course not, Your Highness. I could never be solemn in your presence," she responded, never raising her eyes to meet the green orbs. Carina chuckled at the quick reply. The other ladies present did not understand why the princess had invited Christine and they kept whispering about the blonde. The tension in the room grew again as the princess turned back to her broidering, listening to the music in peace.

"Are we to expect a marriage soon between you and your intended, Miss Vega?" asked Monica Savoie, wife of Otto Savoie. She was a beautiful young woman with raven tresses, darker than Carina's and skin as white as the snow outside. It almost seemed translucent and her blue veins were clearly visible on her exposed neck and arms, telling of the small amount of royal blood that coursed through them. She was third cousin to the princess. She was also widely known by many at court as a lover of gossip and spreading rumors, only she never said a malicious word against her cousin Carina. Christine met her black eyes as they twinkled, her red lips in a stiff smile as she waited for the younger woman to answer.

"Perhaps when winter has ended," she said, her voice distant, not wanting to speak of the subject.

"Are you sure it is wise to wait so long? I am sure you would be showing by then," Monica said, her eyes drifting to Christine's flat belly. "For is it not true you share an apartment with him?" Christine understood instantly what her words meant, and she grew tense, her teeth biting down hard and the needle pricking the textile more forcefully.

"Oh, not at all, my lady Savoie. I believe we can even wait until summer if it were necessary. I have always enjoyed the Angloan summer," she said, staring at Monica, smiling.

"Yes, Angloan summers are beautiful, and so warm. But I feel you should have a husband to warm your bed during the cold winter months," Monica retorted. "Or a man, in general, in your case," Monica smirked. Carina coughed to hide a chuckle, so did the other ladies.

"I wouldn't know, I've never had a man in my bed. But I guess you would know better than I," she said, not even bothering to meet Monica's eyes. Christine knew they had no love for her, nor that she would ever be accepted by them, so she did not even bother to seem offended by the sly remarks. Monica seemed irritated that her little insults barely seemed to affect Christine.

"My dear, Lady Savoie was only in jest," said another woman. It was a tall and thin lady, a beauty in another sense. She came from the north of the continent; from Denmark, having wedded her husband, Rupert Landon when she was very young. Her family was one of the richest in her country and she had, before Christine's father had fallen from grace, been one of her closest friends. But Lady Landon had quickly abandoned her when she saw that being acquainted with her would do nothing good for her.

"Of course." Christine knew why she had been asked to come. She was a pastime for the ladies to play around with, to hurt her feelings as they saw fit. Christine could not turn down a direct summons from a royal and so, she saw herself obliged to attend. The other ladies laughed again, at her cost. Carina put down her broidery and clapped her hands together.

"Girls, girls," the older woman began, her face turning serious. "Do not speak so toward Miss Vega. She is my guest and I will not have you make her feel unwelcomed here," Carina said, beaming at the young woman before her. Christine smiled a fake smile back, knowing fully well not to trust the old princess. Carina had never been malicious against anyone, but that didn't mean she was a saint. Her personality was a big enigma and Christine had always told herself to be careful around the princess.

"Of course, Your Highness," Monica said serious, and then broke out laughing. They continued sewing in silence as the music kept playing. Whispers soon floated through the room and Christine itched to get out of there. She'd rather go horse riding or play chess with one of the lords. Lord Athar had invited her to a chess game the previous day but Carina had been quicker in her summons. So instead she took to appreciate the surroundings.

The room was the most decorated and exquisite sitting room Christine had ever seen. Its style was modern and foreign to her. One wall was entirely covered by a grand mirror, brought from Persia. Blue curtains outlined the delicate golden frame and at its top hung the Royal coat-of-arms. The chairs were comfortable with deep blue cushions and tall wooden backs, allowing those who sat down to rest their back as well. The carpets that lined the floors were not Persian, or from the Orient. Instead they were Italian, and the design was simpler, brighter. There were some Romanesque busts on roman pillars in the corners of the room. One was of Philip I of Angloa in his older days: the luster seemed to have abandoned him. The youthful vigor that was so present in his portraits was gone. He seemed like any other wary old man, carrying the weight of a country on his shoulders. Another bust of King Magnus I stood in another corner, James' father. He did not look as proud and arrogant as Philip had done. Instead he looked wiser, wittier and calmer. The remaining three busts were of James, Carina and Miriam: the royal children.

Another wall was completely covered by a painting. An impressive fresco by Francesco Bianchi depicting a heavenly scene with the Virgin and Jesus Christ reunited in heaven, surrounded by soft clouds and cherubs smiling at mother and son. It had been a gift to King Philip from the painter in his youth, the past century.

Lady Landon sighed and put down needle and thread, determined to further question Christine. "You know, I find it very intriguing, your appearance at the winter ball." She looked thoughtful as she spoke the words. A delicate frown spread across her fair features, but all in the room were expecting her to deliver yet another insult.

"I cannot believe your fiancé was very happy when you returned, especially seeing you in that dress. It must have cost you a fortune." Lady Landon looked as innocent as a baby, but the words were meant to sting. But instead of bothering her, Christine fought hard to hide the grin that spread across her features. There it was, the real reason for her summons. Sure, the ladies could insult her for all they cared, but in the end, they would only gain a few laughs from it. The same could be said for gossip; it would only be a pastime that would not give them anything useful in the end. What they all really seemed interested in was her dress.

"You are quite wrong, Lady Landon, the making of the dress barely cost me a dime, it was the fabric that was expensive. It is byzantine, you see," she said, feigning cluelessness about the insults thrown her way. The other ladies in the room felt their curiosity kindle.

"The seamstress must be unknown, then, if she was willing to ask for so little?" asked Monica, playing with a lock of her hair.

"Indeed," answered Christine enigmatically, never offering more information about Antonia Coticelli. Until the crazed Italian told her herself that she could share her name with the other ladies at court, Christine would be more silent than a tomb.

"Where does she hail from?"

"I never asked," retorted Christine, staring at her broidery, looking quite bored. "She barely spoke a word with me." She felt the corner of her lips tug slightly at the blatant lie. If Antonia wanted it, she could probably talk a man to death. The little Italian woman had stamina and in a sense, Christine respected her. Not even Tristan's frightening demeanor seemed to have moved her. After having left the rest of the dresses she'd made for her, Antonia had retired back to the middle circle and Christine had not heard from her since.

"Do not be coy, Miss Vega. I am quite certain she would want you to share her name with the rest of us," Monica snickered, seeing through Christine's attempt to get away from the subject. The blonde put down her broidery and looked up at the beams in the roof as if she was thinking about it.

"I have a terrible memory, dear," she said with wide eyes. "It might have been Andrea, or perhaps it was Alicia? No, it was definitely Antoinette. I think her last name started with a 'K' or perhaps a 'C'…" she trailed off, mumbling to herself. Christine felt a deep sense of satisfaction when she heard Monica sigh irritated.

Monica was about to snap back at the blonde when the harp stopped playing. The lute continued by itself as the lady took a break from the instrument. It was in that instance that the carved door to the room opened without a knock. In walked the other Angloan princess, Miriam Fell. She was not the same beauty as her sister, but she was still considered a beauty. She was more down to earth than her older sister and if there was anyone that Christine liked at court, it was Miriam. The dark haired woman joined the ensemble of ladies, she seemed out of breath.

"What has you so worked up, dear sister?" asked Carina. Never meeting her sister's hazel eyes. Miriam was profoundly known for detesting gossip and spreading rumors. But it seemed as if she held something of interest within her grasp. The other ladies huddled in closer, wanting to hear what the royal had to say.

"I am to speak with you alone, Carina." She answered stiffly. Her eyes flickered to Christine, surprised at the young woman's presence. Miriam's heart went out for the blonde. But she did nothing to help her get out of that parlor. She knew better than to speak out against the ladies in the room.

Monica Savoie sighed audibly and put down her broidery. "You might as well tell us all, Your Highness, lest we grow impatient."

"You know what I think of gossiping," retorted Miriam severely. Her age alone made the younger woman's eyes sink to the ground as a sign of submission.

"Then you know what I think of teasing." Said Carina. "Surely, coming from your mouth it wouldn't be considered as gossip. It would only be relevant information," she said, now placing all of her attention on her sister. "There must be a reason you decided to come here at this hour, knowing very well that I would have company." It was true. Miriam had hoped to find her sister alone and divulge the information to her alone. She had no wish that the information reach the other ladies, for she was sure the whole court would know of it before the day was over. Furthermore, she cast a glance on Christine, she had no wish the young lady find out from her mouth. Yet, she cast another glance at Christine. Perhaps it was better she heard it from her; unbiased and untainted by growing rumors and distorted by gossip.

"Very well," she said, her hands going to her muted skirts. Miriam was a devoted catholic and her tastes in clothing were simpler; not as extravagant as her sister's. She was modest and took pride in it.

"A challenge has emerged this morning in the assembly room during the lords' meeting with the king," she said stiffly. Carina's mouth turned into a smirk and her attention was now entirely with her sister. "I came here because I thought it pertinent you knew about it, sister. But I guess there are others present in the room who will benefit from this information as well."

"Who did you hear this from?" asked Johanna Landon.

"The king himself, when he joined me in the chapel to pray later this morning," Miriam responded curtly.

"If it comes from the king. The information is certain to be true," said Monica. "Who is to duel and when?" Miriam cast a glance at Christine and her lips grew into a thin line. The innocent face stared back at her and the princess felt her heart sink for the girl.

"Tristan Hawthorne and Matthew Alistair." The lute had stopped playing, and the room fell into a pregnant pause. Christine's heart had skipped a few beats.

"When and where?" Christine never registered who had asked. She could only feel the sickening nausea in the pit of her stomach.

"The first day of next week at dawn, at Morrow's Glade."

"Who issued the duel?" Carina leaned forward, her attention constantly between Miriam and Christine, who had gone pale.

"Lord Hawthorne, after Lord Alistair made his distaste for the other known during the middle of the meeting, and also after he insulted Lady Vega." Miriam sneaked a glance at Christine whose eyes seemed to stare off into the distance. She gripped her skirts hard as her knuckles turned white.

"Your Highnesses will excuse me," she said, getting up, dropping needle and thread on the floor. "Ladies." She curtsied as she promptly exited the room. The other women stared after her in silence as Christine exited the room.

"Alistair is one of the best fighters in Angloa," Monica mentioned silently.

"Lord Braun is clearly the best," Johanna Landon retorted.

"Lord Braun is his second," Miriam said. Making the eyes of the women grow wider.

"Did Lord Hawthorne know of this when he challenged Lord Alistair?" quipped Carina.

"Of course not, or he would never have challenged him in the first place," said another lady, trying to convince them.

"It is true he is a great warrior and general. But this isn't a battlefield. Lord Hawthorne probably hasn't as much experiences with the sword as either Lord Alistair or Lord Braun."

"If Lord Alistair even chooses the sword as the weapon of combat. He might go for something else, like jousting." Monica leaned forward, eager to further talk speculate.

"Alistair will choose the sword. He might be a fool, but he is not that big of a fool." Monica frowned at Carina's response. "Either case, it will be an interesting duel," she continued. Miriam sighed and decided to leave the room. She had given the news her cousin had wanted her to give. She was not keen on staying longer as the ladies continued to gossip. Her mind drifted instead to a pale Christine Vega, and she decided that the young woman and her fiancé would be in her prayers that night.

* * *

People stepped out of his way as he moved through the corridors. Tristan wanted to get to his room and lock himself in there until it was time. He knew he had acted in rage, but he had done so for a just cause. It was time someone taught Alistair a lesson, and he would happily be the teacher.

When he entered the apartment, it was dark and silent. Only the warm fire crackled in the fireplace as the last light of the sun died away, beyond the horizon. He did not expect anyone to wait up for him and so, he started making his way to his chamber. But before he reached the door, he noticed a shadow in the room, a presence that made him tense up. Tristan turned to face Christine, standing by the window, draping some blankets around her to shield from the cold that quickly invaded the room. She did not face him, but instead had her back toward him.

After a long silence she turned toward him and he was surprised to see worry in her eyes, worry and pain.

"Matthew Alistair?" she asked. Her voice shook with both confusion and restrained anger.

"Yes."

Christine walked up to Tristan, standing close enough to feel the warmth of his breath on her face. The light of the fire cast shadows over his mask and her face. The flames danced around in the fireplace. She grabbed harder at the blanket around her shoulders.

"After the winter ball I reprimanded myself for being such a naïve fool," she confessed, her eyes daring to stare into the empty sockets of the mask. He was about to answer her when she shook her head, for she was not finished talking.

"You were supposed to be the reasonable one, and now I find out you are to duel Matthew Alistair?" she cried out. "Where was _your_ reason, my lord? Why such a foolish act?" she exclaimed. He sighed at the truth of her words. They stung, but she spoke reason. It seemed as if their roles had once again changed: Tristan was the foolish one now, reprimanded by Christine for his actions.

"I do not regret what I did, however stupid it might seem to you," he growled, pride and arrogance were more prevalent. He wanted to wipe Alistair's smug smile off his face. He wanted to see the man's face in shock and pain as his sword pierced his heart. The world could only benefit from being rid of men like Alistair.

"He is one of the best fencers in Angloa, next to Lord Braun and General Fawkes," she cried. "Do you realize what that means?"

"Only that you doubt in my ability as a warrior," Tristan sneered, stepping away from her and heading to his room.

"He could kill you, my lord!"

"He can try." Tristan stopped, his back facing hers. She had cast away the blankets and stood shivering, but he knew not if it was out of anger or cold. Christine's lips turned into a thin line as she frowned.

"Will you have me burry you before even having married you?" her tone was cold, void of any noticeable emotion. He never responded and went for his room.

"You will not attend the duel," was the last thing he said to her before shutting the door behind him, shaking the entire frame with the loud bang. Tristan never saw the eyes of Christine, with tears threatening to escape.

* * *

 **Note: here is the next chapter. I appreciate if you'd left a review if you found you liked it, or the previous chapters :) For those who did, I really appreciate it!**


	16. Chapter 16

**A TALE OF ANGLOA**

 _Chapter 16_

* * *

 _February 11_ _th_ _\- Wessport Palace_

"His safest bet would be anything but the sword," said a thoughtful Rajac as he stroked his chin. General Fawkes, Simon Rajac, and Joseph Winston all sat in Rajac's parlor in the palace. It was an impressive room, decorated in tones of beige and coffee; slightly more worn and older than the one Tristan and Christine had gotten. It reminded the three men who sat there of forlorn days; days of real chivalry, of honor and knights; _honorable knights_. Light sifted through the windows and shone brightly on them as the fire in the too big fireplace crackled. It could well fit two or even three boars for roasting. It might as well have been a kitchen fireplace, from its sheer size. But Rajac had asked for just such a thing. His wife, Amanda, got excessively cold, and he wanted her to be as warm as possible. Dark brown tapestries, faded yet elegant, lined the walls. He had never guessed their age, but they had to be over two centuries old, at least.

They sat around a polished mahogany table, an elegant piece of furniture that, just like the cushioned chairs, clashed strongly with the rest of the interior decoration.

They were discussing strategies for the duel. Tristan had not come; as was expected. He was "occupied" was all he had said. He would be back during the afternoon though since Fawkes wanted to spar with him. The fact was that Tristan didn't want to think much about the duel. He didn't want to be in close quarters with General Fawkes, after finding out about Lord Athar.

"Tristan can defend himself with a sword," argued Joseph heatedly. He had recovered after a good night's rest and more food in his belly. His color had returned and the dark circles under his eyes had almost disappeared.

"He won't be able to choose the weapon either way. He was the one who challenged Alistair," retorted Fawkes, his hands clasped in front of him as he leaned over them.

"But he could at least make a request. I am sure Alistair would listen," began Rajac, cut off by a heated General Fawkes.

"My boy, if you were to duel another man, and you knew yourself to have the upper hand; would you throw away that upper hand?" he snapped, jaw tensing and brows furrowing angrily.

Joseph said nothing to that. The previous day he'd sent a trusted messenger to ride through the mainland with no stop for rest, only for a change of horses at pinpointed way-stations. If all worked as it should, he would reach Lucius in a matter of days to relay Tristan's message. Lucius would finally come and help with this mess they now found themselves in.

"But Hawthorne did lead the men into battle up north," Rajac confirmed. "The soldiers always boasted of his bravery, charging first into the fight." There was a long pause as none spoke. The parlor seemed gloomy as they all worried about the fate of Tristan. It seemed only Tristan himself had given little thought to the duel; at least not openly. "Either way, he cannot let his nerves rule over his mind in a matter such as this one," Rajac murmured. Fawkes looked worried as well.

"I have only heard of his brilliance in strategy, but never in actual combat." Fawkes turned to Joseph with a worried look on his face. "He is capable of brandishing a sword, right?" The mere fact that Fawkes doubted Tristan disgusted Joseph more than it should have. If Tristan was unsettled by something, he was sure he had a good reason for it. After what he had found out about Athar; and the papers confirming plans to overtake the castle, he knew well where his friend's mind might be.

"I have seen Tristan alone up against five men, killing them within a matter of minutes," he muttered.

"But those were foot soldiers. Foot soldiers have barely any training. Lord Alistair is much more than a common soldier, he has had training for years." Rajac's hand went to his hair to push it out of his face.

"He won fighting Henry Saxton in Raven's Grove when we arrived in Cadherra," Joseph said. "I do not doubt in my lord's abilities. If he has his mind elsewhere, it is for a good reason. I assure you he is not nervous about Matthew Alistair," Joseph said, dismissing all doubt in the other men.

"Winston is right, Rajac. We give Lord Hawthorne little credit when we should never have failed to trust him in the first place." Fawkes got up and paced around the room, ashamed of having doubted in Tristan. "It seems we always doubt in Lord Hawthorne. And then he always proves us so wrong that we questioned how we could ever have doubted him in the first place," he laughed. He looked over at Joseph and Simon sighing.

"He has proved you wrong before?" asked an amused Rajac, despite himself.

"Yes. Joseph, you were not yet up in the north when we fought against the English. You, Simon, you were in Coldwick at the time. But I remember like it was yesterday, the day when I first saw Tristan Hawthorne." Fawkes looked into the distance and his eyes shone with something akin to pride and sorrow.

Joseph and Simon straightened at Fawkes' words. None of them knew the story of how the old General met the young General.

"You were there when he arrived?" Joseph asked.

"Of course I was, lad. I was the commander of the armies of the north then. I never thought in a million years that he of all people would come to take my position. And I thought even less that it would be I myself who would willingly give him that position." When neither Simon nor Joseph spoke, Fawkes took it as a sign to continue.

"We thought him very strange at first, and quite mad," he said. "I was overlooking the field one day and there I saw him, arguing with his commanding officer after having lost the battle at Haven's Beach. We had had bigger losses, but we still lost one thousand men that day, barely killing half as many Englishmen. Hawthorne kept on arguing how it could all have been avoided if we hadn't charged first and stayed on higher ground." Fawkes sat down wearily. "I thought I saw an angry apparition at first, for there stood a man dressed in black rags and a sack of leather upon his head."

"Rags?" Joseph questioned.

"Aye, like he had run through a forest of thorns. He dressed even worse back then; if you can imagine it. And the masks he wore, unsightly." Fawkes shuddered at the memory, chuckling at his own reaction. "He could barely see a thing in those sacks." Joseph and Simon gaped in surprise.

"Hawthorne never told you these things?" Fawkes asked as he beheld their astonished expressions.

"He never speaks of anything personal," Joseph admitted.

"The only one who would listen to him at first was General Melkeer. He took him under his wing, of sorts. And it was the moment he listened to Lord Hawthorne that the war turned around." Fawkes turned quiet as more memories rekindled in his mind, bringing up both joy and pain within him.

"Marcus Melkeer was a good man," Rajac murmured, having known the man himself. "His fate was an unfortunate one."

"He was a good man indeed..." Fawkes said, his eyes staring emptily into the black fireplace.

Joseph looked down at his hands, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Tristan has many reasons to fight for survival, he knows what to do." His words were grave, conveying the importance of the situation.

* * *

"Bless me, father, for I have sinned. It has been three months since my last confession." The small roman church was colder inside than outside. The great blocks of stone trapped the chilled winter air and never let it escape.

The cross-shaped building was in the middle circle, in a quiet section and away from prying eyes. It was a modest church with little decoration afforded to it. Most of the money donated went to the poor. What little that remained served to feed the three priests that stayed within its walls. It was one of the oldest churches in Wessport with foundations dating back to the Roman Empire. The original builders had not wanted to completely tear down the roman temple that had once stood in its place. Therefore, part of that old temple; its strong marble pillars supported the weight of the church. One section of the floor had been spared as well, showcasing an exquisite mosaic painting of the sun. It reminded the churchgoers of the craftsmanship from the forgotten days of the past.

There wasn't even enough money for incense nor sufficient candles. An impressive round window was at the end of the church, high over the altar. It let in the sunshine of day as the candles could not light up the darkness in the house of God.

Maria had been the one who insisted that Christine go to confession. She had never been devout, but she knew that sometimes, not even a close friend could help with the inner troubles the soul held. The young maid had scoured the city for a peaceful and secluded area for Christine to go; where she knew she would not be spied on. She had given her mistress a set of her own clothes and taken her there. Maybe she might find some peace of mind in prayer, something Christine rarely did anymore. The maid stood guarding the entrance while Christine kneeled by the confessional, next to the priest.

"What are your sins, my child?" asked the rotund priest. It seemed that even if the money was scarce, he found some way to keep his belly full. But his kind face and relaxed demeanor calmed Christine.

"So many I do not even know where to start, father." She spoke the truth. Christine had many inner demons that needed to be dealt with. But she did not want to talk about those with a stranger. The truth was that she had no idea who she could divulge her problems to. Maria already knew all she needed to. Her mother, although understanding, didn't need to hear her daughter's problems and insecurities. Tristan was out of the question. And she doubted that a divine being, that the lord himself, would care to listen to what she said.

"You may speak freely here, none will judge you in the house of God," he said kindly. The man was wider than he was tall and he had brown hair, cut close to his scalp. His eyes were big brown and kind, reminding Christine of a deer. He smelled of honey and freshly baked bread and his pudgy fingers clasped the wooden cross hanging around his neck. She found him already a better confessor than any of the priests at the chapel in the Palace. She did not trust them, for she had no idea how they would treat her confession; if they would divulge the secret to anyone else.

"I have lied. Those lies have hurt the ones I care about. I have been prideful as well," she confessed. Those were small sins, but it felt good to get them off her chest. The priest got a pensive look on his face.

"I see." He settled back on the chair and his face softened as he chuckled slightly. "You come here to unburden your mind, my child. Yet, I believe there is more than just those sins troubling your mind." She knew he spoke the truth, but what burdened her were truths she was yet not ready to face.

"There are burdens I do not yet wish to explore, father."

"We all carry those, life throws challenges at us and it is up to us to deal with them as best we can. If you continue to carry them as you have, you will find that they will continue to grow until you one day can no longer carry them," he said distantly.

"I only wish to know my penance, father," she urged, not wanting to delve into the real reason she was troubled. He sighed, but did not push the matter any further. He gave Christine her penance and absolved her from her sins. Before she left, he placed a heavy hand on her arm.

"I will be here, ready to listen to any other burdens that might weigh down your soul," he smiled kindly. As his lips widened, she felt her heart grow warm at the bright gesture.

"Thank you." Her heart felt as heavy as it had before, she knew then the truth the priest spoke. He had made it clear to her that there were problems within her that she had ignored for quite some time. Christine thought all her fears and sorrows had gone away the moment she had set out to seek redemption for her father.

"Are you done, my lady?" asked Maria as she reached her. The words echoed through the building and turned the head of the priest.

"Do not call me my lady, not here," whispered Christine as they exited the church. Once outside she breathed in and regretted it immediately. The stench of the city filled her nostrils and made her cough violently.

"We should return to the Palace and the inner circle, Miss Vega," Maria said, still refusing to call Christine by her Christian name.

"No, not yet. Let me enjoy being out a bit more," Christine argued. She wanted to savor the little freedom she had. She wanted to wander around carelessly and go to markets and look at the exquisite things they sold. She wanted to get lost in the city, avoid her fiancé. Christine did not want to face him yet. Nightmares had plagued her sleep that night, about his duel.

Christine did not doubt in him as a warrior at all. She knew well of his accomplishments in battle, and his capability of brandishing a sword. But she was not so certain of Alistair. He was an excellent fencer. She had seen him duel before. It had barely lasted five minutes before the other man fell dead to the ground. She had seen the dirty tricks Alistair had used. There were no rules for dueling, it was usually until first blood was drawn, something that could be very openly interpreted. The other man was dead before he had even hit the ground. He had been a good fighter, maybe even better than Matthew Alistair. But Alistair had played dirty, void of honor in the ring. She knew Tristan; he prided himself in being honorable, he would never fight dirty, not even if it meant saving his life. He was too prideful, and she worried that it might get him killed.

"If we are not to return yet, then let us go to that bakery down the street. I can smell the pastries from here," said Maria in an attempt to cheer her lady up. Christine let herself be dragged through the throng and toward the sweet fragrance that wafted through the air.

* * *

"Good, again!" shouted Fawkes as he parried one of Tristan's blocks. They had been fighting for what seemed like hours, but little time had gone by. They were in an empty hall, used by the soldiers for training. It had been made available to them by Fawkes' request. He wanted to see what Tristan was made of and he was not disappointed.

He had provided him with a heavy longsword, something Tristan was not used to handling. He thought the weapon old, medieval and savage. He preferred the finesse of the dress sword, or even to combat with his fists. But he made good use of the weapon, albeit not enough to unsettle Fawkes' mind.

"I heard you defeated Henry Saxton?"

"I did, in single combat."

"With that thin thing you call a sword?" he said pointing to the side where all the weapons stood. They were stacked against the wall or propped up on hooks against the marble itself. A few dress swords or rapiers hung there, thinner and shorter than the longswords.

"I did. Force isn't everything, General."

"If Alistair disarms you, it is over for you. If he breaks your sword, it is over for you. He will not see the duel through until you lay dead on the ground," Fawkes said in a serious tone.

"I suspected as much." Tristan muttered.

"Aye, but there is more. He will want to settle his curiosity, with no respect for whatever wishes you have regarding your privacy," Fawkes forced, pointing at the mask.

"That will never happen," Tristan growled, thrusting hard, only to be blocked again by Fawkes as he stepped to the left, elegantly swinging the heavy weapon.

"I hope not."

They both returned to their fighting, blocking and thrusting as best as they could. But Tristan's mind was elsewhere. He wasn't preoccupied with the fight for he knew he'd win. It didn't matter what weapon he'd choose, he would always have the upper hand in these matters. He had trained since adolescence and he knew how to kill, with a sword or without. What bothered his mind instead was the date and location for the duel. Why had they insisted it be set so far ahead? The fight would take place in four days. Usually a duel was set for the following day, so that it might be finished as quickly as possible. Yet it seemed as if Alistair had insisted it be by next week. Tristan wondered if Alistair was working together with Athar. For would not it be a wonderful chance to empty the Palace enough to walk their army toward its gates? But he considered it again. How could Alistair be on the same band as Athar when he and the other lords had completely disagreed with him openly at the assembly about their armies? There had been real despise from both men toward each other, the kind of contempt you couldn't fake.

He felt the sword slip out of his hand as Fawkes uttered a frustrated sigh.

"Do not let your mind wander, Hawthorne. It might well be the last thing you do," he snickered, walking to pick up the sword.

They sparred for a few more hours; until the perspiration of their sweaty bodies seemed to form a pool on the hard floor of the hall. After another while, Fawkes could not keep up, feeling the years of his old age take hold.

Tristan bid his farewell from Fawkes and walked out of the hallway in nothing but his white shirt and black pants and boots, keen on getting warmed up by the fire in the parlor. He passed the Outlook of the Palace.

It was a section that stood open. Tall arches with no windows stood instead of a closed wall. It was on the side of the castle looking south. He stopped to admire the view, despite the coldness. Tristan took in the sight; they never quite outshone the views in Cadherra, but it was still impressive. It showed Wessport in all its glory. The thousand chimneys puffed pure smoke up into the sky; as if the city manufactured the clouds that graced the blue heavens. The white snow clung to the ground as well as it could, melting one day and freezing the next. A treacherous layer of ice hid underneath the powdery substance. The night had seen another snowfall and heavy frost form to the woods that lay beyond the walls. The trees stood white, naked and skinny, nothing like the proud forest of Raven's Grove.

As he looked out over the city, Tristan felt something that surprised him. He did not feel at home there. He had suspected he never would. Instead, he kept thinking back to Cadherra, to the mighty Durun Mountains and the wide forests that clung to their feet. Adelton Hall had been more of a home to him than any other place he could think of, and he had only been there for a few months. As his eyes took in the wintery landscape of the north, he understood one thing. He would not hesitate anymore, he would not stumble nor falter. He had thought that once the war was over, he could leave these lands forever. But there was something that called him back to it. At first he thought it was his sense of duty to his king. But then he knew what it was, he had known it for quite some time, yet never wanting to realize it for himself. He wanted to build an Angloa that would be safe for Christine. If that meant exposing the traitors and conspirators to the crown, if that meant that he would have to wear the mask for the rest of his life, he would gladly do it. But there was something else, something that did not entirely have to do with her either. It was the love he had come to know for the country. It was a small, insignificant island to most, but to him it was more, it was now a home. And he cursed at himself, not being able to hide the smile that grew on his lips. He could never go away now, knowing that in the deep crevices of his heart, he would always yearn to come back.

"It must seem small and insignificant, compared to the vastness of Cadherra," a sultry voice said behind him. Tristan felt a cold hand caress his back, trailing along his spine until resting on his shoulder. Lady Carina came to stand next to him, smirking as she contemplated the city with him.

"The beauty of Cadherra is a natural one," he agreed, never letting it show what coursed through his mind at her presence.

"It is good you have grown fond of your lands. But you do Wessport a great injustice, you do not know this city in the height of summer," she argued, her other arm motioned at the city. She wore a dark blue gown lined in white fur with her hood up to cover her black tresses. Her green eyes looked at him meticulously.

"Why are you here, Your Highness?" Tristan had no mind for games with her. He brushed her hand off his shoulder and her face settled into a faint frown, the plump lips turned into a thin line.

"I heard about the duel."

"I guess it is widely known then." He stated dryly, unaware of just how much she was taking in the sight of him. Carina watched in delight as the thin shirt clung to him when the winds picked up speed, pushing the fabric against his lean, muscular torso. She could not drag her eyes away from his face, trying her hardest to catch a glimpse of his eyes.

"Alistair is a great fighter."

"That must be the only thing he is good at," he deadpanned, walking away from her. But the click of her heels soon fell in behind him as she fought to keep up with his long strides. Tristan felt a chill in the corridor, but it was not due to the winter cold.

"I came to offer you some piece of advice, Lord Hawthorne," she said behind him.

"I can do without your advice." He stopped and turned around, Lady Carina stopped in her tracks so she would not bump into his chest. "I can do without your approach in general, my lady," he muttered sternly, thinking of the other night she had tried to seduce him.

"Arrogance has been the downfall of many men," she retorted with a tense jaw and a gleam in her green eyes. "And so has pride," she added. Tristan only nodded. It seemed most were inclined to believe that he would fail in the duel.

"I never do something unless I am positive it will be in my favor." He put his hands behind his back and looked down on her, her face dared to look up at his.

"I wonder how Lady Christine must feel about this whole ordeal," she purred, knowing well that Christine was a sensitive matter to him. But even this did not seem to affect him.

"She knows why I must do this, she understands."

"Are you sure she does? We women always lie to protect the ones we care about," Carina said truthfully. Tristan got impatient.

"I will follow through with the duel, and if it be my death, at least I have died for a good cause." Tristan paused slightly before continuing. "I have no doubt that you are a great and intelligent lady. I will overlook the approaches you made to me the previous night and ask of you to not do it again, Your Highness," Tristan continued politely. It would do him no well to get on Carina's bad side. She only smirked at his statement.

"If that is your wish, my lord." He was sure that she wouldn't give up so easily, but getting a verbal confirmation was better than nothing. Tristan bowed, leaving her alone in the cold corridor, and headed for the warmth of the fireplace and the food that awaited him in the parlor.

The sun was lower on the sky, now touching the horizon as it brought the day to an end. If the day had shown anything to Tristan, it was that most of those who surrounded him trusted little in his abilities. It felt like he was back at the front, all those years ago, when he first arrived in Angloa to fight against the English. The only one who had trusted in him back then had been General Melkeer. It seemed that anyone who believed in him left him in the end.

* * *

"Should you not dress warmer, my lady?" Maria was folding away the dress Christine had worn for the day. She sat sipping wine in her parlor, wearing nothing but her white night gown: a white chemise in soft cotton with a detailed rounded neckline. The outlining had flowers sewn into it in green thread. She wore a robe over it in light copper brown made in fine velvet, a present her mother had given her before departing. The robe was sleeveless and with no closures. The trim around the edges was in black and gold brocade.

"I am quite warm by the fire, thank you, Maria," she said distantly, staring into the flames. Her heart was just as heavy as that morning in the church. But she would not relapse into depression as she had once done in Adelton Hall. It was time she turned true to herself.

The door opened and in walked a weary Tristan. His thin shirt did little in keeping him warm and he went directly to sit next to the hot fire.

"Where were you all day?" He questioned as he sat to warm himself by the fire.

"Keeping away from this dull place." She confessed, sipping her wine once more.

"Dull?" Tristan turned to Christine with a puzzled look on his face, a look even she could sense through the mask. She chuckled, the sound made Tristan's cold and weary body warm instantly. How he would love to hear that sound come more often from her.

"I had to get away, if only for a few hours." She stared at the simple goblet in her hands, savoring the rich liquid as it slid down her throat.

"Maria, prepare my clothes for the night and have a bath drawn for me." He turned to the maid who quickly curtsied and went for the servants' quarters, to ask for aid with the buckets of water and tub that would be necessary.

"Where were _you_ all day?" Christine asked the same question, looking curiously at the thin clothing that clung to his body. "Did you roll around in the snow?" she joked. She had no strength for more serious conversations, she wanted her mind to relax for once.

"I was sparring with General Fawkes."

"Of course." Her face turned emotionless as she was reminded of the duel. Tristan leaned back further into the cushioned chair and sighed.

"Are you doubting in my abilities as much as everyone else?" She was quiet for a while, she wanted her response to be true and just, measured and thought out. Christine ran her hand through her loose tresses and put away the goblet. The action sent a wave of heat through Tristan's chest as she exposed part of her delicate neck to him, unbeknownst to her.

"I know what kind of man Alistair is." She looked him directly in the eyes, even if she could not see them due to the darkness in the room, due to the lack of sunlight. "He is not like you, my lord. He will not fight honorably when the day comes, like I know that you will." But then her eyes got a spark in them as she fearlessly looked directly at him.

"But I do not doubt in you, I have never doubted you ever since the winter ball," she confessed quietly as she got up from her chair and went to stand by him. Tristan got up from his own chair, rising up by her side. She no longer shied away from his nearness, instead she dared to look up into his masked face. He found honesty, truth and worry in her lavender orbs. And something else, something mixed into the pain and sorrow that had become so evident in them. He never thought he would see that emotion in those endless eyes of hers, to see it transpire and overtake everything else that had reigned her tormented mind for so long. His jaw tensed as he unveiled the truth those eyes revealed. He saw the care she held toward him.

"But let me worry, my lord," she uttered as her brows furrowed. "Let me worry for you when no one else will." She was transfixed by her emotions and the endless depths of where his eyes should be. She dared to look further, let the light of the fire illuminate those mysterious orbs that he had hidden and that she had feared seeing for so long.

Her heart sped up considerably as she caught the first glimmer of his eyes. At first, she had expected that they would not be there, that there would only be two empty sockets, something she had gotten so used to seeing. But instead it seemed like the intensity of the fire grew beside them, lighting up the room as her gaze expanded farther than it ever had. Christine took another step to know Tristan and his secrets. He could only stare at her just as mesmerized as her gaze truly met his for the first time. His heart swelled when she captured his eyes with her own and her mouth opened slightly.

She felt as if she was staring at a myriad of colors ranging from gray to blue. But blue seemed to be the most dominant, breaking free from the other colors and ruling them. His eyes spoke of gentility, of the calm sea after a raging storm. They were not harsh nor cruel as she had feared. Instead, they were calm and understanding. His blue orbs took her in, and it felt as if she had unmasked him then and there. They spoke of a wisdom she had yet to learn, of experiences both good and bad. Christine thought she had truly known Tristan before, but she knew that she'd been a fool for thinking that. His soul seemed to pour out of the blue, endless ocean before her. How could a man with such expressive orbs be as intimidating and commanding as Tristan? She saw pride there, but not some arrogant pride that was easily dismissed. It was a pride that went beyond her comprehension and it festered deep within the irises and the explosions of colors that they held.

"I do not want you to worry for me." He said after what had seemed an eternity, an eternity where both of them had been captivated by the other. Her mouth closed as a sad smile grew on her face.

"You cannot tell me what to do," she argued halfheartedly. Tristan moved in closer, their bodies molding to each other and their breaths increasing, turning deeper as the tension between man and woman rose. He slipped a hand behind her back and leaned in. Christine never let her gaze drop from his eyes as she tilted her head up. She was conflicted about what was happening. For a split moment they relished the touch of the other, and then their closeness was disturbed, ripped apart.

It was sudden, faster than the blink of an eye. Tristan had moved away from her, standing on the other side of the fireplace. Three maids and two footmen walked into the parlor, never knowing of the intimacy the couple had just shared between them.

Maria and a blonde maid were carrying a wooden tub between them while the other maid and the two footmen carried buckets of steaming hot water between them.

"You bath will be ready shortly, my lord," Maria said as she walked into his chambers, followed by the ensemble of servants. He only muttered and walked into his rooms, leaving Christine to stand alone by the fireplace, unable to return to what she had been doing before.

They soon settled in their own personal rooms, for rest and sleep. While Tristan could not find a comfortable position in his bed, Christine fell asleep as soon as she lay down. She thought her mind would explode with new thoughts and questions about what had just happened moments earlier in the parlor. But instead her heart and thoughts were light, even growing warm at the memory. They lulled her into a peaceful sleep as soft winds caressed the windows to her room.

As was usual, the palace soon turned quiet as people retired to their rooms. The empty hallways guarded the secrets that continuously flowed around inside the walls. It was an eerie peace, a great contrast to the calm to be found in Adelton Hall. No light from the moon shone in through the windows that night as the black sky was void of the silver orb.

Hours had passed by and Christine woke up with a strong thirst. She reached out in blindness, trying to find the pitcher of water that Maria always placed by her bedside. In her attempt to reach out for it, she knocked it over, The metal hit the stone floor with a loud clatter and Christine silently cursed, wondering if she'd woken up Maria or Tristan in the process. The water spilled out and soaked the nearby carpet. She got up, draping a gray mantle around her to keep the night chill out. Perhaps there was some water in the parlor. The young woman put on her slippers, to guard naked feet from the soaked and icy floor. She shivered when she left the warm covers of her bed and ventured beyond her room.

The parlor was empty as well. She had expected it to be so. The dying embers of the fire gave little warmth now and the chill from outside the walls had penetrated the thick stone. Christine roamed around in the darkness, blinder than a mole, but careful to not knock anything over. In the end, she found a candle, bringing it to the embers to light it up. The weak flame illuminated part of the room. No pitcher of water seemed to be present. She found some wine instead, wrinkled her nose at the thought of alcohol.

Christine was about to go back to her room when a sudden noise outside of the parlor door caught her attention. She tensed. The door was locked, so no unwanted guests would venture in. Yet, the mere thought that there would be someone out in the hallways drew her closer. Were they being spied on? She thought against it, they had discovered the secret passageways by the fireplace and in Tristan's room. Surely whoever kept watch over them would not be as daft as sending a spy to guard _outside_ of their apartments.

Involuntary steps took her closer to the enigmatic door, making her heart race as she had no idea what she would find on the other side. Her ears strained to hear anything else. In the stillness of the night she could hear someone stumble as she neared. The young woman gathered the wool mantle tight around her. She gripped tight at the metal candleholder as well, ignoring the little droplets of hot wax that escaped the metal base and found their way to her skin. Her own breath seemed loud and forced to her as she grew nervous. Christine arrived at the oak door and pressed an ear to it, so she could better hear what was going on. At first there was nothing, and it seemed like she stood there for an eternity, doing something forbidden, prowling like a thief in the night. She kept glancing back, afraid that Tristan or Maria would find her lurking in the wee hours of the morning. Maybe a second had passed, or perhaps it had been ten minutes, but she heard something again. This time it was the sound of someone grunting and stumbling. Perhaps it was some drunk guest, making his way back to his chamber after a late night rendezvous with one of the many ladies in the castle.

Instead of being sensible, there was something at the back of her mind that insisted she open the door. She fought against it at first, but slowly, as if by magic, her hand reached for the handle, almost as if someone else was controlling it. Christine turned the key and slowly opened it, just a silver, so she might peek out and see who was at the other side. At first she saw nothing. Only the dying light of the torches that lined the hallway. She stepped back when her intuition screamed out. The hairs at the back of her neck and arms rose, there was something eerie about that hallway, something that needed to be investigated. She looked around the parlor, for a weapon: if whoever lurked out there proved to be a threat to her. She could only find a thick book, a tome. It would serve well to smack someone over the head, with its own sheer weight.

She pushed the door open further, allowing the light of the torches to invade the space of the parlor. Christine left it open, one shout would be enough to wake Maria and perhaps even Tristan. She took one big step without hesitation into the hallway. Christine felt vulnerable the moment she had left the comfort of her parlor and the knowledge that the door could be shut as a barricade against her enemies.

She held the wax candle high and strained again to hear any peculiar sounds. Christine heard and saw nothing. She looked around the near vicinity of the hallway, only to find it empty. But the flickering light of the torches cast strange shadows on the walls and floors, making her question what she saw. There might well be someone hiding in the darkest of the shadows.

"Is there someone there?" her voice rasped, stiff from sleep. It was weaker than what she would have liked. It did well in reflecting how she felt at that moment: frightened and strained. A weak grunt to her left made her jump. She turned in that direction and closed in with the wax candle. Christine almost slipped as she neared a still shadow. Her feet seemed to have slipped in water, or perhaps it was spilled alcohol. The shadow took form as she neared it, a slumped body, sitting on the floor, propped up against the wall.

"Sir?" Christine said carefully, still keeping a distance from the man sitting against the wall. He seemed to be drunk as his head kept bobbing back and forth. He did not hear her the first time, so she repeated her address, rather more forcefully the second time.

"Sir!" His head snapped in her direction and his face looked up at hers, letting the light of her candle and the torches illuminate it. "Lord Linahan?" asked Christine as she recognized the face. It was white as a ghost's and sweat pearled down from his temples. It was then that she heard the wheezing coming from his chest. There was something wrong with him. Something terribly wrong.

She neared him, careful not to slip in the water or alcohol that he might've spilled. When she kneeled down beside him, she saw him clutching his right side and a dark liquid pooling out from it. The metallic smell of blood then filled her nostrils and Christine realized that she was kneeling in a pool of blood; his blood.

"You are hurt!" she exclaimed, putting down the candle to examine his wounds. Jonathan Linahan could scarcely move to stop her. Her hands shook as they went for his side. He protested little as she moved his bloodied hand away, gasping when she saw the bloodstained shirt. The fabric clung to his torso, sticking against the open wound and the surrounding skin. Without a second thought she turned around and shouted.

"Maria, my lord, is anyone there?" Christine did not know what else to do. Jonathan's heavy eyes locked with hers and there was a sadness in his face. He seemed to have given up as life poured out of him. His other hand came weakly to rest on her cheek as tears trickled down from his brown eyes.

"Angela." His voice was so quiet that she didn't hear it at first. "Angela," he repeated, caressing her cheek, smearing the blood all over it. Christine did not stop him and she trembled while he kept hallucinating.

"You will be alright, my lord," she tried to reassure him. She cast away the mantle and started ripping off strips of fabric from the hem of her dress, pressing them hard against the wound. But the blood would not stop flowing. She could hear someone inside the parlor quickly making their way to them. Linahan leaned in closer, to her ear and tried to whisper something, but he was too weak.

"Linahan!" Tristan's rugged voice uttered as he quickly came to the dying man's aid. The masked man's eyes widened as he saw Christine kneeling down in her torn night gown. Blood was smeared on her cheek and dress; the hem of the white textile a deep red as she sat in a pool of blood.

"He has lost a lot of blood, my lord," Christine said as she kept tearing strips of fabric from her nightgown. She cared little for modesty at this point, the man's life was on the line. Tristan instantly got down on his knees on Linahan's other side. He carefully pried away the blood covered cotton and sighed inwardly at what he saw. There were several stab wounds on his lower abdomen and even back by his kidney. He had seen similar wounds during the war and knew that Linahan was currently breathing on borrowed time. As Christine fervently tried to stop the bleeding, the masked man put a heavy hand on her arms. He shook his head, feeling its weight increase as he stared down on the dying man. Her own hands fell to her sides, covered in Linahan's blood and her forehead furrowed in frustration.

"By the saints!" came another startled voice. Maria stood in the hallway as well, wrapped in a thick plaid mantle, holding a wax candle like Christine's high above her head.

"Go to the servant's quarters, have them alert the Chamberlain and bring a physician," Tristan ordered. "Someone has tried to kill this man." Maria could only nod as the color drained more from her face. She did not even venture back to put on more clothes and she headed for the direction of the Great Hall. Before she could go further Tristan stopped her. He pushed a small dagger in her hand.

"In case the killer is still lurking." He did not need to say more. The maid knew what she had to do, and she ran toward the end of the corridor, enveloped in darkness.

Meanwhile Linahan grew colder in Christine's arms. She held his hand while trying to stop the blood with her other one.

"Angela," he kept whispering, his mind between hallucination and reality. She did not know Angela but in the end she understood who it might be; a loved one, someone he cherished. Christine put a loving hand up against his face and cupped his cheek, turning his head toward her.

"I am here," she whispered back, trying to smile to reassure him that all would be fine. Tristan got down next to them, his heart tightening as he saw Linahan stare lovingly into Christine's face. Jonathan's jaw was tense against the pain he felt.

"Who did this to you?" Linahan's eyes were clouded, he did not seem to understand the question. He kept looking at her as if she were an apparition. The blood still flowed with force from his wound. His pulse grew weaker and weaker. Time was drawn out, and they never knew how long they sat there.

Running steps could be heard from the end of the corridor and Tristan saw Maria coming, with medical supplies. She was not followed by anyone. He guessed she had sent a servant for the chamberlain and a physician while she ran for the kitchen where some medical supplies were kept.

"Who did this to you?" Christine repeated.

"H-he did," Linahan said, he was clinging onto life by sheer will.

"Who is he?" Christine urged. "You can tell me, Jonathan," Linahan grew frustrated and shut his eyes, blinking away the tears that threatened to fall.

"I s-shouldn't have been… careless. I…" he could barely complete a single sentence.

"A name is all I need." Tristan said, moving in closer. "Give me a name."

The three sat in the darkness of the corridor. Linahan's hand dropped from Christine's face and he slumped against her shoulder. His breathing slowly died down and she could feel his warm tears wet her gown.

"Tell… Hawthorne…" Linahan sighed.

"Athar," He said at last with his dying breath. His full weight slumped against Christine as life left him.

He was dead.

Christine did not know what to do. She sat there with the dead body against her chest and shoulder for a while, completely still from shock and fear. Tristan stared emptily into space and felt a rising anger slowly overtake him.

Maria rushed up to them, one hand placed over her mouth in shock as she saw the dead form of Jonathan Linahan. Tristan carefully took the weight of the body away from Christine and placed it lying down on the floor. She could only stare at it, feeling her hands tremble and bile rise in her mouth. She had seen men die before, but never so close.

When stories were told about battles and of the slaughters that took place, they never explained in detail the distant look a corpse's eyes held. They never talked about how gray and sick the skin looked. But worst of all was, they never talked about how inhuman the corpse looked. It was more like a sack of flesh and bones. She stared at the lifeless form and found it impossible to believe that, just a few minutes earlier, it had moved; it had spoken. Thoughts and dreams had coursed through its mind. It had lived, and now it was all gone. The impact of how quickly a life could be extinguished, and of her own insignificance and frail state as a human being hit her harder than she thought.

She could hear someone talk to her through the thick fog of her mind. It was distorted and never quite reached her. A hand shook her shoulder and someone helped her stand. Someone escorted her back into the parlor and sat her down next to the now pitch black fireplace. She could hear more footsteps outside the parlor, whispering voices trying to make sense of what had just happened. More running, more whispering.

"Drink this." Someone pressed a cold goblet into her hands and she drank until it was empty. Seconds went by and they pressed it into her hands again. She drank the rich amber alcohol, feeling it calm her nerves.

"Is this the first time you've seen someone die?" whispered the voice, it finally managed to pull her out of the fog, out of her shocked state. Tristan's masked face was next to hers as he placed the gray mantle around her shoulders.

"No." Her own voice sounded strangely foreign to her. "I have seen it before. But…" she finished the alcohol in the goblet and handed it to Tristan.

"You have never seen it so close before, seen it so personal," he said, looking into her eyes with an understanding that spoke of experience. Of course; he had been at war for two years.

"The way his life left him," she confessed at last. "I always thought death to be violent, something that happened in the blink of an eye. Not something as scary; that slowly extinguished your internal light." She stared down at her bloody hands and looked away. "You must think me weak."

"Never."

They sat in silence as the people outside dealt with the body of Jonathan Linahan. Maria walked in at one point walking to her mistress and embracing her as the maid herself fought hard to overcome the shock of what she had just witnessed. But she excused herself soon, wanting some peace of mind, wanting to be alone. The maid's head was in a million places as she dealt with the situation in her own way. Tristan was not as affected. There had been plenty of times when he had seen men die, some by worse means than other. He had held many of them dying in his arms, giving encouraging words as their life-force left them. But he remembered the first times he had seen it happen, he had remembered his own strong reaction as he had witnessed someone die. Christine was taking it better than he had expected.

"Let's get you to your room," he whispered in her ear, trying to get her to stand. The rummaging outside of the parlor only served to remind her of what had just transpired. They got up and Christine stumbled, frowning at her weak legs.

"My legs won't listen to me," she whispered in frustration, her voice strangely even. He picked her up and carried her in his arms, walking to her room. "Why won't they listen to me?"

"Your mind is processing what just happened. Your body will not listen to you until your mind is ready," Tristan answered distantly. The effects of the alcohol were already wearing off. He walked into her dark room but stopped at the threshold. She felt him tense as he stared at her bed.

"It's alright. You can go in," the same weary voice said, she rested her head against his chest out of fatigue. Tristan did so, walking into the room and placing her on her bed.

"Will you manage from here?" he asked her. She felt so small and fragile as she sat on the bed. Christine sighed audibly. She never answered his question, so he left. But when he was by the door she cried out for him.

"Please, don't leave me alone." Her voice sounded stronger than what she had intended. She was surprised at what she was saying. Christine hid her stained hands under the mantle and still shivered. He walked to her, kneeling next to her. There was no need for words as she stared into his eyes.

"I… I don't think I will be able to sleep tonight," Christine confessed, looking at the window, waiting for the sun to rise. He placed his gloved hand over her bloodied one and squeezed it gently.

"Me neither," Tristan answered back.

* * *

 **Note: another chapter down! Yes! This will be the first fic I actually complete! So excited about that :) I wish to thank Shiloh Grace, my beta, for giving me little hints on how to better my writing. I know I still have missed a few things but I hope it's getting more readable for you guys now :) You should really check out her amazing story: "I Have Done It All For You"!**


	17. Chapter 17

**A TALE OF ANGLOA**

 _Chapter 17_

* * *

 _February 12_ _th_ _– Wessport Palace_

Deep and peaceful breaths broke her dreamless sleep. Christine found herself on her bed, atop her covers, her mind distant and confused. She looked around in the room. The sun was shining its dim beams through the thick windows and all was quiet, peaceful. She could see the dust particles dancing in the air as light hit them. The air in the room felt thick and humid and a chill crept up on her. It was the moment of peace before she realized where she was.

The room was so quiet that she could've heard the drop of a pin. It was the reason why she heard the soothing breaths next to her; they reminded her of the ocean, in some sense. The rhythm served to calm her and her confusion turned into a sense of security. When Christine's eyes adjusted to the dim light she was surprised to find Tristan sitting on a chair next to her bed, his head resting against its tall back.

Her eyes widened as she took in his form: his white shirt was stained with blood in several places, as well as his brown wool hoses. The upper part of his shirt was unbuttoned, allowing her a slight view of his chest; some white, thin scars rose up, trailing toward his throat and continuing under the mask. It sparked a distant curiosity in her.

Even with his face covered, he emitted an air of extreme fatigue and relaxation. She had never seen anyone sleep so deeply before. For the last several days she suspected he had barely slept, for she knew something plagued his mind. Yet now he slept like an infant; not even the sound of a screaming crowd would wake him.

Christine inched closer, taking in every visible part of him. Tristan's closed eyes were so heavy that she feared the lids had been glued shut. The black eyelashes cast shadows onto his covered cheeks. His lips were slightly parted, allowing the sweet breaths to escape. His arms were folded over his chest and they moved as he inhaled and exhaled. Long legs were extended in front of him, crossed to give him a more comfortable position. Christine had never seen someone look so peaceful in quite a while and she smiled. There was something almost beautiful about the man before her. It was a peace she had never come to know in Tristan. He looked more human than ever to her, proving that the calamities and strains of life affected him just as much as they did her.

But soon memories from the previous night conquered her mind like an unwelcomed invader. Christine pushed the sight of a lifeless Linahan away from her mind and focused instead on getting out of bed. She gripped the gray mantle tightly around her and walked with silent steps to the door, seeing if Maria was in the parlor. The maid was stacking logs in the fireplace to prepare the fire for the day. Big snowflakes fell outside of the palace and managed to paint the city a pure white again, hiding the gray and black filth that had forced its way through the previous days. In some sense, it seemed like any other day to her. If she didn't think about it, Christine could almost forget that a man had been brutally stabbed and died in her arms the previous night. It was the only thing that reassured her. Whatever happened to her, whatever horrors were thrown her way, life never stopped. It had no reason to. The sun would still rise, bring with it a new day, whatever happened. It wasn't the end of the world, she kept thinking. She knew she could overcome this. She had overcome last night. Christine had had her moment of fright, of weakness. It was time to heal from the shock and prepare for what the future might bring.

"My lady!" Maria exclaimed as she saw a disheveled Christine enter the parlor. Her golden hair was a mess, looking more like a bird's nest that had been tousled in a storm. The gray mantle hid part of her once white nightgown, but not enough. Maria quickly reached for the wool garment and pushed it aside, taking a deep breath as she saw the bloodied clothes Christine wore underneath. The young woman drew a sharp breath at the dried blood on her hands, wondering how she could've forgotten to ever clean them.

"Are you alright?" the maid asked, her voice fighting hard to not break. Maria was still haunted by the previous night.

"I will be, Maria." Christine was surprised at her honest answer. She thought she would be in despair, in fright as she had not been able to sleep the previous night. She had been, when the initial adrenaline had left her system shock had ruled her senses. She had felt vulnerable then, reminded of her own mortality and how easily a life could be extinguished. But she never let fear take over and her terrorized mind settled thanks to Tristan's comforting presence; of all people.

When Tristan sat with her, she had relaxed, feeling completely safe and sound in his company. He had barely said anything. His presence had been a stoic silence. Alas, no words were necessary. He emitted a composed calm and it rubbed off on her. His eyes had spoken for him and she remembered they were the last thing she saw before succumbing to sleep.

"Could you prepare me a bath and a gown? But take care in not waking his lordship. I will bathe in his room instead," she said, looking at the closed door to her chamber.

"Lord Hawthorne was with you all night?" Maria asked stunned. Her mouth dropped as her eyes locked with Christine's.

"It is not what you think, Maria!" Christine exclaimed. But she never explained herself, turning around to hide her reddening cheeks. There was a nagging feeling that disturbed her. She had invited Tristan into her room. The man had had some sense and hesitated at the threshold. It had been she who insisted he take the final step.

They weren't even married yet.

However, Christine wasn't disturbed by the fact that they had spent the night in each other's company. It only served to prove to her how much closer they had gotten. It was true that Tristan barely expressed anything toward her. But she began to understand that his small gestures of closeness and finally showing his enigmatic eyes was his way of opening up to her, even if he might not be aware of it.

Maria never questioned it. Instead, the maid sent word for bathwater and went into Christine's room to fetch her mistress' gown and attire for the day. The maid tiptoed to the wardrobe and her mouth dropped slightly at the sight of a peaceful Tristan, resting in his chair. The maid could not help but smile. Even in such a state, he had been honorable, never wanting to share the same bed. The chair was even a modest distance from the bed. In this light, Tristan looked less intimidating to the maid as well. But she knew him well enough, he was like a sleeping lion; the moment he woke up his inner fire would be rekindled and he would be as brooding and as threatening as always.

* * *

The light in the room got more intense as the sun continued to rise in the sky until it reached its highest point. The light finally managed to irritate his eyes. Tristan stirred. His body ached from having slept in a chair the whole night. As he shuffled around on the uncomfortable wooden furniture he realized something: he had not slept so well in weeks. He got up from the wooden chair and stretched his stiff back and neck, rolling his shoulders to get the blood flowing. Tristan looked down on himself and swore at the bloodied clothes.

Images of the previous night started revealing themselves to him in that solitary room. He remembered the dark corridor, Christine's shout of panic and the look on Linahan's face as he cried out for someone. He remembered Christine's look of shock as she watched the man die in her arms. But what Tristan remembered most of all were Linahan's last words. In the heat of the moment, he had barely remembered the importance of them: "Tell Hawthorne" and "Athar." Linahan had mentioned Athar.

Could it be that the old duke had overheard Linahan talk to him the other day after the assembly? Could it be that it was Athar who, in desperation to not be found out, had stabbed the younger man to silence him? So many questions suddenly found their way into his mind and served well to confuse him. The more he unveiled, the more questions he had. It had been Linahan who'd asked him about Saxton; Saxton had trusted in Athar, so Linahan must have done so as well. He only knew that he needed Lucius in Wessport as quickly as possible. He had an itch to interrogate Captain Fletcher, but he did not have the means to do so in Wessport. It would surely expose him.

Christine had heard Linahan's last words as well. He trusted her, he knew she would not go around and mention them to anyone. He was certain, now more than ever, that she would have a myriad of questions for him. It made the masked man growl to himself in composed frustration. The leather gloves creaked as his hands turned into fists.

Tristan headed for the door and opened it, finding Christine sitting in the parlor, staring into the fire. A tome rested in her lap, but the book was unopened, almost as if she'd wanted to start reading but never got to it. She heard him exit her room and her head snapped in his direction. Tristan then saw Joseph sitting with her, in silence as well; his whole posture tense. Both of them looked like they wanted to speak with him, but one look from him quickly silenced them. Tristan needed a bath and a change of clothes. He saw a few buckets of water by the fire, sending a questioning glance toward them.

"I imagined you'd want a bath as well, so I had the servants prepare the water until you'd be ready," Christine answered distantly. He never answered back and instead took the buckets with him into his chamber where he stripped from his bloodied clothes and let the water purify him. The dried blood came off his body, mixing with the water and a metallic smell filled his nostrils. He spent little time in the tub and soon returned to the parlor, finding Christine and Joseph as disturbingly quiet as before. They all sat there a while, taking in what had happened that night.

Joseph had been alerted that morning. The gossip had spread like wildfire and many courtiers had even ventured to the same corridor, in hopes to get a glimpse of the body. Of course, out of respect for Linahan, he had been moved to the chapel, awaiting his funeral. But the bloodstains were still there, the odor of metallic blood and fright stalked the cold corridor and the same courtiers soon walked away, afraid of the scene they had witnessed.

"The king has asked for us the whole morning," Christine said distantly after a while. Tristan remained silent and stoic. He seemed thoughtful and angry, perhaps even furious. Joseph had no inclination in getting on his bad side.

"I suspected as much," Tristan deadpanned after a while.

"They are probably sending someone over again."

"They?"

"The king, the small council and some members of the small council," answered Christine. She only received a contained growl. Tristan had no strength nor will to deal with scared old men at the moment. But he was even more irritated that he hadn't been informed earlier.

"And you tell me this now?" His tone was even, it contained a hint of irritation as he rasped the words gravelly. It made the hairs on Joseph's arms rise. Christine sighed as it seemed like the old Tristan was back. She put away the book, her lavender eyes met his ocean blue ones.

"You needed sleep. If you argue with me on that, lying how you've barely had a shuteye for the past few days then you mock me, sir." She got up from her seat and walked over to him. Joseph felt uncomfortable as he sensed the coming fight between the two. Tristan never moved an inch in his seat as Christine came to stand before him.

"If the king asks for me, I am obliged, as his loyal subject, to go." The response made Christine huff in slight frustration at his ever present arrogance.

"So then the promise we made in the carriage about being honest with each other was false?"

"No."

"Then enlighten me, for I know that you are holding something back. Joseph was gone for days and suddenly returns with an urgent message for you. Lord Linahan was stabbed by someone right at our doorstep. His last words were to tell you something and then he says Athar's name?" With each word, her voice grew more severe. "I have told you several times that, despite some of my previous actions, I am no fool. I can sense trouble when it's present. What aren't you telling me? I have a right to know!" It was not a plea, nor her begging him. It was Christine demanding Tristan to treat her as an equal and to respect her. He could not argue with that. But keeping her in the fold would mean that she would feel as paranoid about living in the castle as he did. It would mean that she would not only have to worry about the pestering courtiers: she would constantly look over her shoulder in fear.

"This is Wessport, Miss Vega, what do you think is going on behind closed doors?" Tristan's question was enough to answer her own.

"Conspiracy?" It was the first thing that came to mind and as she uttered the loaded word she sank down on the settee next to him. "You cannot be serious…" she trailed off. But as she kept thinking about it another realization hit her like a wall of bricks. "Thomas Athar is involved in a conspiracy?" she uttered, looking first into his eyes and then into Joseph's.

"He killed Jonathan?" Her words were barely a whisper. The mere thought made her feel sick. She could see the kind eyes of the old man standing before her and Christine refused to believe that such a man would ever do something so horrible.

"You can never say that again out loud. It could end up getting you killed. Conspiracy might well have been the reason Linahan was stabbed," Tristan growled, growing tense. He sat in the chair like a statue and Christine was in awe of how calmly he was taking the whole ordeal.

"You will not report him to the king," she stated. She understood why. Going up against a powerful man like Athar was extremely dangerous. They were alone at court with no connections nor friends. It was she; a traitor's daughter, Tristan; a masked commoner turned nobleman and Joseph; an insignificant Viscounts' son with no prospects. The added fact that Tristan was to duel in a few days did not add to their favor either.

"We will deal with this after the duel. It is better to focus on that now than to try to balance several things at the same time." Joseph voiced his own opinion. "But Athar will pay for his crime. If he did kill Linahan." Joseph's voice shook slightly. He had known the deceased lord. They had been acquainted since children and the loss weighed heavy upon him.

"In all of this, it seems we keep forgetting that a man lost his life," Christine admitted and looked apologetically at Joseph. "Did you know him well?" she asked quietly.

"I would've liked to know him better," Joseph answered distantly. It was true. Despite having known each other since infancy, they had never gotten to be exceptionally close. Yet, Linahan was someone who'd always been present in his life. And now he had suddenly just disappeared.

"Do you, by any chance, know who Angela is?" she asked, softly. Her voice could not hide the sadness she felt when she remembered how Linahan had spoken that name with so much care. It was evident that it was someone he estimated highly.

"Indeed. It was his wife, she passed three years ago in childbirth." Joseph looked questioningly at Christine. "How did you know that name?" Tristan could see the sadness rip another fresh wound into her as she was yet again reminded of the lost life. She put a hand over her chest and composed herself.

"Because when I held him dying in my arms he would not stop calling for her," she said. Her voice broke at the end and she released a shaky breath.

After more silence, Christine finally got up and walked over to the door. "I believe the king is waiting for us." She wanted to be anywhere but there.

Tristan and Joseph reached for their capes and put them over their black doublets. They were all dressed in mourning as they headed for the assembly chamber, Christine included.

* * *

Maria had never been in the palace chapel before. It was a secluded building with an impressive courtyard in the east section of the building. The courtyard facing it was called the Courtyard of the Kings. She looked around again; it was more of a small church than a little chapel, which spoke of the immensity of the impressive palace. The little church was actually the oldest part of the building, not taking into account the pagan foundations. They could be found beneath the dungeons of the palace, beneath the roman ruins. They were the leftovers of the civilization who had inhabited the island long before the Romans: the _Hynglican_ people. They had lived in tribes, much like the pagans of those days, praying to their own strange gods of old until the Romans had taken over Angloa. It had also been the Romans who's given the island its name: Hangloa, who had then passed to be called Angloa as it was conquered by the Saxons during the early Middle Ages, only to be reclaimed by the Normands; annexed to Britain.

Maria drifted toward the confessional. Since the palace chapel was much richer than the one she'd taken Christine to, the confessional was more than just a chair where the priest sat. It was a box with separate compartments, so the confessor might keep their anonymity. She kept telling herself how she had never been devout, but confession had always been soothing for her. If not for her soul, it had always helped her mind.

Maria had not been able to deal with what she had seen and heard the previous night. Anything that she heard about Christine she would take to her grave, bear the burden and live with the consequences of never sharing such secrets. But when she saw Linahan's blood pouring out of his body, like his life-force draining out from him, she had been plagued by that sight during her sleep. Her nightmares had woken her several times and she had struggled hard not to wake up screaming.

It was the first time she had seen a man killed so violently. She needed a confessor to hear her worries and tell her what to do.

She opened the box and slipped in, talking in hushed voices with the priest. The incense of the building soon calmed her nerves and the echo of their whispering voices sounded like an unearthly melody; the kind of sounds one could only find in a house of God.

Maria poured out her whole heart. She talked about what she had seen. She knew there could've been a better place to go to, considering that the palace was a dangerous place to let out such information. But the gates of the castle had been closed until the culprit had been found. She did not wish to burden her mistress with her feeble heart and so, her feet had taken her to that impressive chapel.

The maid kept glancing at the wooden panel in front of her, at the intricate detail carved into it, allowing her some view of the priest that sat behind it. When she had told him all he offered her a solution. There was a long silence, as his mind worked the alluring information he'd just received.

"Step out of the confessional, my child," he spoke gravely. She almost jumped in her seat as the words ripped through the silence. Maria did as she was bid and stepped nervously out of the wooden box only to come face to face with Cardinal Thorpe. She immediately got down on her knees.

"Your Eminence!" she cried out, never knowing such a highly ranking servant of the church had listened to her meekly problems. He lowered his gloved hand for her to kiss his ring and bade her to stand. There was a sense of urgency on his face as he spoke.

"Now, listen to me. If you do as I say, your worries will disappear and Linahan will rest in peace in his grave. But we must take quick action if we want that to happen," he said, his plump face smiling down at her and his enigmatic eyes piercing into hers. Maria did not feel comfortable under his gaze but did as he bade. She nodded and followed him suit, unaware of where he might be taking her.

The odd pair stalked through the chapel, away from the deep calm and silence and out onto the Courtyard of the Kings. His steps quickened as he took her toward the palace, looking back once or twice to make sure she was following him. Maria was worried. What was he up to? He had heard her confession and somewhere deep down, she suspected that her words would not be allowed to rest a secret. She felt her feet slowly become heavy as she slowed down until coming to a complete stop. Thorpe noticed immediately and turned around.

"What is it, my child?" he asked with a worried look on his face as he came up to stand next to her.

"Where are we going?" she was cautious of him now. A priest, a cardinal, it did not matter. They were supposed to keep a confession a secret. So why did she feel like this was not the case?

"We are going to a man who can help Lord Jonathan Linahan. That man will also punish those responsible for his death," Thorpe said, giving her a stern eye. He never said more, but the look he gave her was most incriminating; as if she would be doing a great wrong if she did not continue after him.

Maria sighed, her mind giving up and listening to his comforting words. She gave him a determined nod, soon following the man in red once more. He led her through the vast network of corridors, up some stairs and into an area she had never been before. Thorpe stopped in front of an exquisitely carved door. Two palace guards stood out front, casting glances at him and the maid. He told one of them something and the guard quickly bolted away in another direction. He soon returned with someone else.

"Are you ready?" Thorpe asked as he turned to look Maria directly in the eye. She nodded, confused, but put her faith in him. He was a servant of the cross, after all. The cardinal then proceeded to knock on the door, announcing his presence.

* * *

The three of them stood in the assembly room. But it was not the usual setup that Tristan was used to. There were fewer people present; only lords forming part of the small council; the highest ranking council in Angloa. Athar, Fawkes, Braun and two other lords were present. They sat next to the king, looking at the group before them. Even members of the council dressed in black, out of respect for the dead.

James looked like he had seen better days. His eyes were about to shut close from fatigue and there was a shadow of a beard on his face, suggesting he'd not had time for a shave. Fawkes had a serious look on his face, something Tristan had only seen at war. He always associated the man with laughter and charming smirks or remarks. Seeing Fawkes looking so serious unsettled him.

Christine felt as if she were standing in front of a tribunal; as if she were guilty of a crime she had not committed.

"I would appreciate, Lord Hawthorne, that the next time I call on you, you arrive faster," James was not happy as he spoke. The pleasantries had gone to the wind as the monarch got straight to the point. He waved a hand in the air as the frown on his face intensified.

"For I deeply hope you take this matter seriously," he continued. Tristan said nothing, but his eyes stared directly into the monarch's green ones, instead of succumbing to a submissive state.

"It was my fault, Your Majesty," Christine intervened. She took a hesitant step forward and squirmed silently as all eyes fell upon her. Before she continued, James interrupted her.

"It seems, Lady Vega, that you have a knack for getting those around you into trouble." James was not amused.

"I take full responsibility. But Your Majesty has to understand. Lord Hawthorne and I could scarcely sleep after having kept Lord Linahan company during the last minutes of his life." She was satisfied with her words, her voice never faltered nor wavered. They delivered the importance and impact she desired. James' eyes widened and Athar's frown turned milder. They slowly came to realize that Christine and Tristan had watched a man die. Who, in their right mind, could be calm after such an ordeal?

"Hrm, eh yes, well… don't let it happen again," James grew slightly flustered as his hand clutched the wooden throne upon which he sat.

"Do you know why we have summoned you?" It was Fawkes who spoke up this time, gaining momentum as James recovered.

"Jonathan Linahan was stabbed multiple times and left to wander the desolate corridors of the palace, bleeding out like a wounded animal. We have a very clear picture of why we are here." Tristan's voice was just as dark as the day he had spoken with Alistar; the moment he had issued the duel.

"Was he lucid during the final moments of his life?" Fawkes continued. "Did he indicate anything about his attacker?" The old general grew weary at the final words. When none of them spoke up James grew visibly impatient.

"Let it be clear now that any information you are withholding from me will result in dire consequences for the three of you."

"The pain and loss of blood had him rambling, sire." Christine grew cold at the memory of Linahan's gray eyes as he called out for his dead wife. She let the emotion fill her and display on her face. "He kept calling out for Angela." Her voice broke at the last sentence and the young woman turned away to regain some dignity at her obvious display of weakness. James looked confused and it was Athar who explained who Angela was to the monarch. James' eyes widened as he suddenly grew to understand.

Despite himself, Tristan was thankful that Christine had spoken. He could not be sure if she did it on purpose or not: playing the part of the weak wounded female, but it clearly helped. The men before them did not wish to tread further, causing Christine more harm. When he stole a glance from her it was evident, as she looked back at him and the corner of her mouth slightly twitched, that she was buying them time.

"He said nothing else, then?" asked Athar. Tristan, Joseph, and Christine fought hard against their emotions as their blood boiled. The old duke acted as if he was completely struck by grief at the loss of Linahan. Whispers had floated through the palace that Athar had rushed to the chapel to say his personal farewells before the funeral. When Christine and Tristan now stared at him, they could only square their jaws and scream inwardly.

"He-" began Tristan. Suddenly a knock broke through the interrogation. It was modest, quiet even. But it was so unexpected that it ripped through the serious scene like an ax hacking away at a piece of hard wood. They all turned their heads toward the door and James slammed a closed fist down onto the armrest, muttering profanities as his voice boomed.

"I explicitly told you that we are not to be disturbed!" The guard who peaked in through the door grew white but did not back down.

"I am terribly sorry for the affront, Your Majesty, but Cardinal Thorpe wishes to speak with you." The guard's eyes kept dancing between the small council and the strange group of people they were questioning.

"He will have to wait!" James got up now, for a more intimidating effect. But the guard would not give up.

"He says it has to do with Lord Linahan," the young guard cast his eyes to the ground, hoping the king would not have him thrown into a dungeon for his impertinence.

James' eyes grew into a set of saucers and his silence was more than enough for the man outside. Cardinal Thorpe pushed past the guard and stepped confidently into the assembly room, going past Christine, Tristan, and Joseph. He planted himself firmly in front of the five men that eyed him with keen interest. Before James could even utter one syllable, the old cardinal commenced speaking.

"I come, humbly, to request that firm action is taken immediately against one of you in here," he said enigmatically. Christine's heart started beating hard in her chest as Thorpe glanced back on them. Was he going to have them imprisoned for not divulging more information? Or was he perhaps in league with Athar? Could it be that he was trying to protect the old duke by imprisoning her or Tristan? She did not let her worry show. Instead, confusion settled into her features. She glanced over at Joseph, who remained calm on the exterior. Tristan's mask shielded him from any insight. For the first time ever, she was jealous that his mask protected him in such a way.

"Well, speak up man, we haven't got all day!" James was impatient, but Tristan noted a hint of nervousness in the young king. Maybe James knew as much as he did. Maybe James had figured out that Linahan's death was tied to the ongoing conspiracy in the palace?

"I have proof that one man in this room did stab Lord Jonathan Linahan countless times to silence a man whose conscience got the better of him. This proof also proves that the same man is in a treasonous conspiracy against you, Your Majesty," Cardinal Thorpe said haughtily. He put much force in his words as he spoke, proudly raising his head. The words did inspire the wanted effect and all present leaned forward in anticipation. Thorpe knocked on the door and in came two women.

They were both maids, but there the similarities ended. Christine, Tristan, and Joseph all felt their hearts drop as they spotted Maria walk in, seemingly frightened at the scene before her. The young maid's mouth dropped when she spotted the king. She cast herself to the ground in a clumsy courtesy and shivered. Her eyes then found Christine's and Maria grew nauseous. She reprimanded herself then and there, knowing fully well what the Cardinal had brought her into.

For a full minute, no words were spoken but they were not needed. Between Christine, Maria and Tristan a thousand words could not have expressed the sense of defeat and betrayal they felt. Christine's confused mask began slipping as her eyes locked with Maria's. Her furrowed brows finally showed the utter sadness that had replaced the feeling of betrayal. _Why?_ was the only thing that coursed through her mind. Why was she there? Why would she be with Cardinal Thorpe?

"This young woman, burdened by her heart and by what she saw that night, came to the chapel for confession," Thorpe said as he placed a reassuring hand on Maria, making the maid turn to face the small council.

"I know, my lords, that confession is a secret we servants of the church must keep. But this brave young woman was willing to step forward and reveal what she said to me." He gently squeezed Maria's shoulder. To Maria, it felt as if he was breaking every bone in it. She had never agreed to such a thing, but to Christine, it must sound so. The young maid fought hard to not let the tears escape. Oh, how she must look now! She was Judas reborn for all Christine could care. Maria had prided herself in being a loyal servant, always there for her mistress. Now it looked as if she was turning her back on the person she cared for most.

"Tell them what you told me, child. Do not let fear rule you. The ones responsible will pay." Thorpe squeezed the shoulder harder and guided her to stand before the king. James eyed her keenly, sudden recognition sparked in the deep crevices of his mind. This was Christine Vega's servant.

"Your Majesty, I…" her voice broke as she felt her heart beat faster and harder than a thousand galloping horses. Her tongue would not move and she would not stop shaking. She could feel the stares of the three people behind her, she could feel the eyes of the monarch pierce her very soul. Maria's eyes then gently drifted to Athar, a man's face whom most in the kingdom would recognize, even in his advanced age. His reassuring face gave her courage, not because of the kind look he gave her, but because of what she suspected about him.

"Last night my mistress went for a pitcher of water and stumbled upon a dying Lord Linahan in the hallway. I know little of what he said for she sent me to get a physician. I have never run so fast in my life, my lords. Your Majesty, I tried to get to him in time, I swear I tried!" she exclaimed and clasped her hands in front of her, as if in prayer. Remorse was evident in her eyes. Before she could continue James put up a hand.

"You did more than what was asked of you. But there is a reason Cardinal Thorpe has brought you here. Speak now," he was not the usual kind and charming king that they were used to. James was impatient to find out who in that room had betrayed him.

"Well, when I got back with the physician and with the help, I was there first. The physician; Mr. Adams, is a very old man, so it was hard for him to run as fast. But I arrived there in time to hear Lord Linahan utter his final words." Maria turned to meet Christine's glazed eyes. Tears had not yet fallen.

"I believe both Miss Vega and Lord Hawthorne were too affected by the situation to hear fully the last words. But I heard them," she paused slightly and swallowed hard, looking from Thorpe to Athar to the king. "His final word was uttering a name: Athar," she finally said. The old man frowned at her, confused. James quickly turned to stare at him in disbelief.

"It is well known that I kept a close friendship with Lord Linahan," Athar defended himself, growing considerably insulted by the words. James gripped the armrests of the throne and said nothing. But the way his face twisted spoke of the inner battle his mind was having.

"Thank you, my child. That was very courageous of you," Thorpe removed the hand from her shoulder, his eyes closed as he spoke sincerely. He then moved to the other maid and motioned her to move forward. She was a beautiful young woman with bright red tresses. Never as red as Antonia's, was all that went through Christine's mind. But the color invaded her mind, screaming at her. Maria went to stand by the side of the room, wishing she could disappear. And maybe she would, if Tristan didn't have her killed, then Athar would.

The other maid strutted forward, swaying her hips, showcasing her voluptuous form. She needed no initiative from Thorpe as she commenced.

"Well, I saw it all happen. I was returning from Lord and Lady Tremston's apartments. They had asked for a late night snack. When I heard strange noises coming from Lord Athar's apartments as I passed them. They're further down the hall from the Tremston's, you see," she stated matter-of-factly.

"I walked past and noticed the door being slightly opened," the young woman took a deep breath as a pained expression grew across her delicate features. She did the sign of the cross as she continued. "I saw Lord Athar sink the knife into poor Lord Linahan who fought his way free and stumbled through the corridor. I ran for my life, of course, afraid that the murderer would kill me as well if he ever found out what I had seen," she finished. It was swift but effective.

Before anything else could be said, Thorpe motioned for a guard to step in and hand him some documents.

"After Miss Jeanne was brave enough to step forward, I took it upon myself to talk with Lord Athar, for I thought that perhaps the young maid had been slightly overcome by what she had seen." Joseph saw some of the pieces of parchment from afar and his eyes widened as he recognized some of them. He had glanced over them when he'd searched John Fletcher's place. Thorpe gave the documents to the king.

"These documents, signed and sealed by Lord Thomas Athar himself, show his implication in a very detailed conspiracy." Cardinal Thorpe looked over at Athar with disgust as he continued. "I suspect Linahan was involved in it, but his conscience got the better of him. I wouldn't be surprised if Lord Athar stabbed him to silence the poor man for good." The words of Thorpe, the documents, and the testimonies were enough to sentence Athar to be executed.

"Lies!" Athar got up now, very insulted and boiling. Fawkes stared at his old friend in utter disbelief, with his mouth slightly open.

"This cannot be! There must be some mistake!" Fawkes said in desperation. James looked at the plans, with each turning page his eyes grew darker and darker.

"Do you have anyone; a servant, or a footman who could vouch for your whereabouts last night?" James asked slowly. Venom spilled from every word as he squinted his eyes at Athar.

"I…, no, but Your Majesty knows I prefer a small staff to serve me. I was alone that night, but I assure you that Linahan was nowhere near my apartments," he exclaimed. Athar grew frustrated as he came to realize his predicament. He was being accused of murder, on top of that, of conspiracy. It was his word against that of two maids who had given credible testimonies of what happened that night. He eyed the room and found the look of condemnation on many faces in the crowd. His eyes came to rest longer on Fawkes. The man was his friend, practically his brother. Fawkes stood up, not daring to believe that his friend could have done such a thing. Athar breathed, there was proof in the old general's eyes that he questioned what he had heard in that room.

Christine dared sneak a glance at Tristan. She could not believe they had been spared any complications. Athar was being accused on someone else's behalf; Maria's, the other maids and Thorpe's. Tristan's eyes were clear to her. It was like reading a book as she got used to their transparency. She grew warm as his penetrating gaze caught hers, reassuring her with every cell of his body that it would work out. It had to end well.

"Every evidence points at you, Lord Athar," James whispered in a final defeat. His old mentor had fallen from grace and the king suffered from it. The man who had stood by his side ever since the death of his father would now be taken away.

Athar got down from his seat to come and stand directly in front of the king. He did not plead, nor did he tumble into a crying mess as the old duke realized this was most likely his end. He would be locked up—executed as a traitor, just like Christine's father. But he gave his final words; tried one last time to convince the king he had watched grow into a man.

"Your Majesty, I give you my word of honor that I did not kill Jonathan Linahan, may his soul rest in peace. I would never do such a thing. Nor would I wish any ill against you," he spoke so truthfully that Tristan believed every word. The conviction in his voice was strong, unbending.

"I have made my choice." James' words were harsh, there was a hint of defeat and sadness in them. Monarch and servant shared a momentary glance where the nature of their relationship emerged from the depths of their beings. Athar had been his father figure; his advisor in every possible situation.

The old man did not protest as James motioned for the guards to take him away. He walked away with the dignity of a king himself, holding his head high as his heavy feet marched out of the rooms. The guards took him to the dungeons where he would await his destiny.

James sat watching the door as it closed after the white-haired man. In the course of a few minutes, the power of Wessport had shifted. Athar was no longer the most powerful man in the country after the king. He had fallen in disfavor, his name would be swept away by the wind as if he had never existed: as was done with all traitors.

Fawkes dared not speak, but the thin line of his lips said it all. Braun and the other lords had nothing to add. They had remained quiet the entire time, to not attract any unnecessary attention to themselves. They had acted wisely.

James sat down heavily on his throne, letting his hands trace the fine wood as he stared at it.

"I know all the evidence against Lord Athar is overwhelming. But I still wish to confirm this. Until I am certain that Lord Athar has taken part in said conspiracies, he will not be executed," James said, more to himself than to anyone else in the room. His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. It pushed him around and James needed tranquility as the life he'd known came crashing around him. With Athar gone all would change. He needed someone at his side that he could really trust. Lord Athar had been a great ally to him, now he was gone. James was king, but a king needed great allies.

"Go, leave me." He flicked his hand, motioning them all to leave him be. They did not waste a second and scurried out of that room like scared rats.

The monarch was left alone, on his throne. He could only look down on himself and scoff at how silly he was. He thought himself king, yet he was nothing. His head came to rest in his hands as James felt tears of grief and anger rise to his eyes.

He was betrayed by a man that he practically considered like a father.

* * *

 **Note: I wrote here of the _etymology_ (the origin of a word; like its history) of Angloa. It is a name and country that I created. Each country has its own history, even their names have a history. Spain was called _Hispania_ by the Romans that eventually evolved to _España_. France was named after a german tribe; the _francs_ , and before that it was actually referred to as _"La Gaule"_ (no idea how it is said in English). After the _gaulois_. So in a sense, the name Angloa would be closely tied in with the conquests of the Romans and the tribes that lived there before (imagine Celtic tribes, like those in France and Germany and Britain). I love studying about the history of a country, the evolution of its language and its people (it  is actually what I study. Mostly about the French history and language, though).**

 **I hope you liked this chapter and prepare for the next one. It is already written, it is very long (10,000 words approximately) and it is just awaiting a revision. A lot of questions will be answered there, so make sure you don't miss it! I think it was my favorite chapter to write this far!**

 **Thank you so much for reviewing, know that I appreciate it, as always. Happy to see this story finish soon!**


	18. Chapter 18

**A TALE OF ANGLOA**

 _Chapter 18_

* * *

February _12_ _th_ _– Wessport Palace_

Seconds.

Minutes.

Hours.

How long had she been standing outside of that door, waiting to come in? Too long. After the interrogation, after Lord Athar himself had been taken away, Maria had not dared to look at either Christine or Tristan. She had followed them without a word, her eyes never leaving the ground. They had not spoken either: the four of them. It wasn't until they reached their apartments that Tristan had turned around and, with that growling voice of his, told her to never show her face again.

Maria could only stare as the door had been shut right in her face. Stare at the woman she had served for the past few years never even dignified herself to look at her servant, her maid.

The corridor, the empty hallway where Lord Linahan had met his demise laughed at her from all angles. She knew it was her fault; she knew of her treachery. Yet, she couldn't bring herself to accept how much the world around her was changing. Serving the Vega family was what she'd always done; one way or another.

She had taken care of their townhouse when Charles Vega had been alive. She had been a child when she saw Christine the first time. Maria had stayed with them after his death; when so many other servants seemed to desert the family. She had decided to go with them to their only remaining piece of land in Cadherra: a sorry excuse for a house, secluded from the rest. They had been there for a few months until they were called to the capital; living outside of the city in another fallen-down house. But both women had made wherever they lived their home. They eventually ended up in the townhouse of the middle circle and the rest was history.

Maria knocked on the door, shaking as she did so. The maid wanted to at least explain herself. She wanted Christine to look her in the eye, to listen to _her_ before drawing any conclusions. There was a fuss behind the door, a silent stir that sent her heart beating madly. The door slowly opened; as did Maria's expectations. It was Joseph—thank God! The younger man would no doubt be more understanding than Tristan could ever be.

"Sir, please, I only wish to speak with–" but he cut her short, his eyes harder than she'd expected. There was no gentility in them. He felt as betrayed as the other two.

"You should go, Maria, before Lord Hawthorne himself throws you out," he murmured. It might have been mercy on his part. For if it had been Hawthorne answering the door, it could've been an entirely different story.

"I just want to talk to her," she said silently, craning her neck to see if Christine was in the room. "My lady! Please!" she shouted desperately when she saw Christine's stiff back facing hers. There was a split second where she knew that the owner of that stiff black-garbed back was deciding. The tension spoke it all and when she saw the unyielding shoulders sink down, at last, Maria breathed out.

"Let her in, Joseph," came the sad whisper. Joseph looked like he was about to argue with Christine, but he never found the strength for it. The interrogation–what had happened back in the assembly room; it had drained them all.

He stepped aside, letting the maid enter, her head low. If she were a dog, her tail would no doubt be between her legs.

"Sit." Christine gestured at a random chair in front of her. She never got up herself. Maria obeyed without question and sat down heavily. The defeat so evident in her body that it tired her mind before she'd even spoken. The crackling fire could not warm her, the beautiful room could not please her, but the sad lavender orbs of Christine touched her in a way she'd never forget. She was about to speak when the blonde put up a hand, silencing her.

"You will receive your wages and then I want you to leave this cursed city and never return, Maria." The words were solemn, dry and held an undertone of disappointment that Maria had never heard before. Christine's eyes met hers, blue meeting gold, and she frowned.

"My lady, I know no words will ever take away what I did to you. I know Wessport well enough, I know I should never have been in that assembly room. But believe me when I say that I never intended for it to happen! I went to confession after not being able to handle what I saw, I…"

"I am not sending you away for that, Maria. I am sending you away because being here is dangerous for you now. You are a key testimony against one of the most powerful men in Angloa. His friends will try to get rid of you. If you stay you endanger your life." An amount of sadness shone through, showing what Christine really felt under that stern posture of hers. "This is Wessport. You know more than well that we endure what we can, we hold it in, until it consumes us. Do you think I tell you everything that's on my mind? Do you think, when I went to confession, I told that priest anything that would endanger those around me? No." The crackling fire grew louder as the tension between both women rose. Christine was angry and sad, partly because Maria's action had betrayed them, she had revealed something that was not hers to reveal. But another part of her was angry. These same actions would mean that Christine and Maria would now be apart. She would not only lose a maid but a friend as well.

"I will not beg for you to take me back into your service, although in my soul, you will always be my lady. But I came here because I wanted you to know that I never betrayed you! I was tricked into going to that room! I was tricked into telling what I saw. Cardinal Thorpe never once said that he–"

"Cardinal Thorpe was your confessional priest, no? The moment you realized that you should've run as fast as your feet could carry you. You should've disappeared, Maria."

"But I…" she could not stop the sob that escaped her. The sound sent a dagger through Christine's heart. But the blonde hid it.

"Maybe it is better that you leave Wessport. Things will get ugly now, for there will be a struggle for power in the palace. I am glad you won't be here then. Go to your family, wherever they are, and never return. Lord Hawthorne will not be as benevolent as I, so you better hurry now, until he storms out that room." Christine nodded towards Tristan's closed chamber. Maria never felt the tears until the first sob escaped her. She wasn't ashamed to cry, she was only ashamed of what she'd done against Christine and Tristan. It seemed Wessport coaxed out the worst in everyone.

But one look at Christine's face told her all she needed to know. There was no hate there, no rancor. The eyes that had held disappointment and sadness now looked at her reassuringly. Christine knew. Maria then understood; her mistress knew she'd not betrayed her, but she could still not keep her in her services. This hurt Christine as much as it hurt Maria.

So she did the only thing she could do, the only thing that was now expected of her. She left with dignity. Maria got up from the chair and gave a deep curtsy, her knee touching the floor. It was the most formal courtesy one could give in Angloa; the utmost way of showing respect. It was something everyone was taught but rarely used anymore. The days of such gallantry and chivalry had long since died; they were only a distant memory, swept away by the winds of change. Christine inclined her head in response, accepting the courtesy.

Maria left the parlor without another word, vowing to herself that she'd never be far from her mistress. She would be there, seen or unseen and serve her, just like her family had done for generations.

The door closed heavily behind her just as another chapter in her life seemed to take form. Maria sighed, the tears never ceasing.

 _February 13_ _th_

There were only two days left until the duel between Hawthorne and Alistair. Alas, the event was seemingly overshadowed by the fact that Lord Athar had been detained; suspected of being the one to have murdered Jonathan Linahan. It gave Tristan some room to breathe.

Yet, he could not.

There was a part of his mind that irked, a part of his mind that screamed: something was wrong.

It had been that way for a while now. He had barely spoken that morning as they took breakfast in the parlor. A new servant was waiting upon Christine, sent there by the staff of the palace. His fiancée looked solemn as she, no doubt, missed her maid. He had heard every harsh word she had spoken in the parlor the previous day, every sigh and cry as she had asked her maid to leave, as politely as she could. She had been harsh, but just.

He had felt himself stare at her during breakfast. Christine had indeed matured the last month in Wessport, more than anyone should. She still dressed in black, just as he did. While most of the courtiers had gone back to their colorful clothes, not worried about mourning more over Linahan's death, the couple, together with Joseph, had remained dressed in black. He was disgusted that the aristocrats of Wessport cared so little for the loss of one of their own.

The brunette: a petite maid with freckles dotting the bridge of her nose and her cheeks, served their tea. Tristan looked up at her.

"There is a maid in this palace, with light red hair," he said distantly, not really directing his question anywhere. The maid froze as he spoke. She was, like the rest of them, deathly afraid of him. At least Maria hadn't squirmed every time he talked. Christine looked up from her uneaten porridge.

"The one from yesterday?" she trailed off. She downed her spiced wine, savoring the rich texture as it slid down her throat. It was warm and comforting. As comforting as anything could be, she guessed, after having lost a good friend. Tristan's intense eyes fixated on the maid who stood like a statue, looking as if she wanted to sink through the ground.

"Do you know of whom I speak, girl?" His tone was harsher than it could've been and Christine sent him a reprimanding glance, arching an eyebrow as the maid looked about ready to soil herself.

"I-I d-don't know m-m'lord," she stammered. The silver tray in her hands shook with her.

"How many redheads could there be in this blasted place," he snapped, his tone a low growl, making the maid jump in her place. She shut her eyes, sweat protruding from her temples, despite the chill in the room.

"M-maybe t-two or t-t-three?" her teeth chattered. Tristan slammed a fist hard down on the table, the maid might have jumped a few feet in the air.

"Bring them here, now," he muttered. She immediately did as he bade, quickly running away, glad to be out of that room. As the door shut behind her, Christine finished her wine and looked curiously at Tristan.

"Was that really necessary?" she tsked. Now that she knew him better, such display didn't really bother her anymore. To believe that she had once recoiled at the sight of him. Christine felt her gaze drift to those beautiful eyes of his; those expressive orbs that had no end. The endless depths of the ocean. He leaned back in his chair.

"Yes," he muttered again. His curt answer only made her scoff and turn her head away. Tristan could not help as the side of his lip tugged into a small grin. But he quickly hid it as she went back to looking at him.

"Why the sudden interest in the redhead?" she asked. "Do you not believe in her testimony?"

"We both know that what Maria said was true. But what that maid said was too convenient." He stood up and paced around the room, never having liked sitting down for too long. Christine said nothing, keeping her thoughts to herself. She sighed and went to her room to change. She had decided to write to her mother. Ever since arriving in Wessport, she'd completely forgotten about the people she'd left behind in Cadherra; her mother being one of them.

Half an hour passed, half an hour where Tristan sat in a chair, transfixed by the dancing flames of the fire. He removed one glove when he made sure that no one was present. Joseph was out searching for Fletcher once more. There were more conspirators to be found. Tristan let his fingers glide along his mask and sighed. His jaw tensed. A soft knock on the door drew him back to the present, and he quickly tugged the glove back into place.

"Enter." His voice was commanding as it expanded in the room. A hesitant hand turned the iron handle. In stepped the brunette, followed by an ensemble of maids. All had their heads bent down, staring at the floor in an endless attempt to flee from that room. Their fearful eyes searched the patterns of the carpets, taking in the luxury of the room and its furnishings. Most were maids that only kept to the kitchens or served in the banquet halls. Most were maids that were never seen by the inhabitants of the castle.

Tristan's could feel his poor muscles stiffen in his back and neck at the sight of the maids entering the room. Anne, the brunette, had kept her word, bringing every redhead she could find.

The shy women before him had all some shade of red to their hair. His gaze swept over them in an instant. Tristan's hand turned into a fist, the leather of his glove creaking ominously: none of them was the maid he'd seen the previous day in the assembly room.

"Are these all?" Tristan asked in disbelief.

"Yes, m'lord," said Anne in her northern Angloan accent. "These are all the maids with red hair, there are no more." She was careful as she spoke, not wanting to displease the masked man in front of her. Tristan eyed the women before him again for a total of three minutes before turning his back on them.

"They may leave." His voice was a tone deeper, and the brunette whisked the young women away as fast as she could. When the heavy oak door closed behind the group, his hand went up to the bridge of his nose. He pinched it and gritted his teeth.

Sometimes, things were more complicated than they seemed. And now it seemed he had stumbled upon one of those occasions.

The window overlooking Wessport and its skyline showcased a day that slowly turned gray; mimicking how Tristan felt inside. The clouds were weighed heavy by the amount of snow they carried. Another snowfall was sure to come within a few hours or during the night. Cold would come with it. It seemed winter was not ready to leave yet.

As he sat there, looking at the white rooftops and chimneys puffing out the white smoke, his thoughts raced. Many variables concerning Linahan's death concerned him. So many things did not add up that in the end, he could not let it pass.

Tristan promptly left the parlor and headed for the corridor. There he went to the side of the door; where Linahan had drawn his last breath. He stared at the spot where blood had covered the polished stone. There were still traces of oxidized blood left in the cracks. No maid had been able to completely clean away the evidence.

He thought back to that night. Linahan had been stabbed a total of five times in the side. One wound had pierced his kidney, and another had hit a major artery. There had been slashes across his throat. Someone had tried to silence him. Tristan hadn't noticed it then, for the urgency of the moment had overshadowed his rational thought. But as he thought back on it with a clear mind, he understood what a sloppy job it had been. The person who had killed Linahan had done so because of need. Linahan had most likely found something he shouldn't have that night: it was information that had cost him his life, information that he could never share. The cut across the throat suggested they had wanted to make sure he died on the spot, but they never managed it.

Tristan's eyes widened as he kept going further up the hall where Christine said she'd heard him come. He found small traces of blood here and there, sloppily cleaned.

Linahan must not have wandered as far as they initially had thought. The struggle must have happened further up the hall. The fact that Athar's personal quarters were a good 20-minute walking distance from theirs only further added to Tristan's new theory. Linahan had been stabbed close to their rooms, not in Athar's parlor, as the redhead had said. Furthermore, he could not have been stabbed in Athar's rooms; he would have bled out before even arriving close to their corridor.

However, this newfound information did not prove Athar's innocence: it only proved that Athar had not killed Linahan in his own quarters. As he tracked further up the corridor, noticing small droplets of blood here and there, he started to question Athar's guilt. It would be so easy to say it had been Athar. Yet, the rational part of his mind screamed at him: there was something amiss.

He came to a stop at the end of the corridor; its eerie quietness and darkness unsettled him. There were no traces of blood left. This was most likely where Linahan had been stabbed. Up ahead was an exit that led to a smaller courtyard and then out a back door, out of the palace.

Tristan returned, processing the new information he had just obtained from mere observation.

The door closed heavily behind him as he entered the parlor. What was he supposed to do now? If Athar had killed Linahan in that corridor, then why place false evidence suggesting he had done it somewhere else? Someone had gone through a lot of trouble to make sure that Athar takes the blame. Cardinal Thorpe had been the one to secure the redhead to give false testimony against Athar. The more he thought about it, the more his mind screamed that Athar had been framed. It was the most logical response: Athar being proven guilty would see the structure in the palace collapse. Investigations would stop and the real conspirators would be free to do as they pleased.

The rest of the day he kept pondering that thought, going over that night again and again.

 _February 14_ _th_

The electricity in the air was overbearing. Gray clouds had been pestering the skies for hours, growing darker and darker. They lay like a thick velvet blanket over the city and its vicinities. The heavy downfall threatened, and many got inside as quickly as possible.

A storm was nearing.

Both figuratively and literally. It bubbled under the surface of the palace, threatening to break free and unleash its havoc. They could all feel it. They had all felt it ever since Athar had been detained.

James Fell had kept away from the public eye for the last day. The betrayal from such a close friend had affected him deeply. The monarch had spiraled down into a depression that no physician or scholar could coax him out off. His mood swings had already cost a few palace servants their jobs. They had been kicked out, left to wander the streets, hoping to find a roof over their heads for the coming nights. Some desperate girls had ended up in the brothel of the middle circle. Their first night in Wessport showed its cruel face, and they suffered, much like the starving people of the lower circle suffered each day.

The Blue Hall was a mere whisper of what it had been only a few weeks ago. It held the proud throne of Angloa upon which James sat. He had prided himself in looking regal and threatening, looming over visitors as they entered _his_ palace, _his_ city, _his_ realm… But what good was a kingdom when every second could be your last? What good was power when you had to continuously fight to keep it? What good was a crown when it would make those closest to you turn on you?

He sat on that splendid throne, carved from the trees outside of Wessport, detailed with gold and silver. Painted with a myriad of colors. He sat in the darkness of the hall, alone, as the electricity in the heavens outside the marble walls threatened to push him to his limits.

James stared at the golden crown he held in his hands. How many men were willing to sacrifice so much for such a puny thing? It was all that coursed through his mind. The piece of metal, shining brightly, with all its rubies embedded into it, looked lifeless to him. It was only cold metal. It was only gold and precious gems. Nothing more.

He sat in that hall, sporting the coat-of-arms of Angloa. The terraces lining the long walk to the throne had royal blue drapes hanging from them. The tall columns had fabric twisting around them as well.

It was dark for no lights had been lit. He had not allowed it. In fact, James had fired the footman who'd insisted on at least lighting one candle, so that the king might see. But the king didn't want to see. He had lost a good friend; his world had turned upside down in the course of a few hours. A man he practically saw as his father had betrayed him. Thomas Athar was worse than Judas, worse than all traitors combined in the history of men. James could not process the anger and sadness he felt toward the old man.

He had locked him away in the most comfortable dungeon the palace offered. The king, despite himself, could not mistreat a man that had been by his side since childhood.

James could not believe Athar's betrayal at first. He had read through the confiscated documents several times and eventually his mind had gone numb. The monarch could still not bear go down into that dungeon and face the traitor. He knew he would break; something he would let no one see, ever. Yet, there were so many questions he had for Athar. So many things he wanted said and sorted through. Perhaps Athar had a good reason? Perhaps this was just all a big misunderstanding? Oh, how the king wanted it to be a misunderstanding, so they could go back to the way it used to be.

But, James knew who should be the one to speak to Athar. He had thought long and hard about it, coming to the most satisfying conclusion.

The eerie peace of that dark hall was soon disturbed as the great doors opened. The silhouette of a man stood there, dwarfed by the immense door that arched high above him. Quick steps sounded as the boots made contact with the cold marble floor.

Tristan Hawthorne moved forward like a specter in the night. He looked very much like a ghoul, as he melted into the shadows, a place where he had grown to feel comfortable. It had taken a lot of coaxing but he had walked in, despite the guards practically having to drag him there. They had shown up on his doorstep that afternoon, a full 24 hours after Athar's initial arrest. The sky was swiftly darkening as they insisted the king required his presence. At first, the count became suspicious. Why would James want to speak to him when he scarcely allowed anyone else at court near him? Christine had insisted that he not go, she had been afraid then, he had seen it in her eyes. She had told him to stay with her. And he had tried. But the guards had threatened him, fear shone in their own eyes as they pointed their lances at him. The masked man saw no other alternative. He followed them, uncertain, almost afraid of what the king had in store for him.

He could not help but frown at the irony of the situation. The Blue Room was very different from when he had walked in there a few months earlier upon his return from war. It had been a bright place, striking awe and respect into those who entered it. But now; it was only a shadow of what it used to be. It seemed the palace was slowly decaying, together with its king as he sat on his cold throne, looking at his glittering crown.

"Who dares to disturb me?" James growled, not even bothering to look up. He painted quite the picture. His hair was unkempt. He had thrown aside the purple jerkin and the beige doublet, only sitting in a wrinkled shirt, untucked and unbuttoned at the top. His feet sprawled out before him and both his hand gripped the crown hard.

"Tristan Hawthorne does, sire, at your command." Tristan did not like the look of what he saw. But he was more disturbed by the fact that James had forgotten he'd summoned Tristan.

The masked man had been briefed about the documents found in Athar's apartments as he had made his way to the Blue Room.

"Get out," James said with such ferocity that it made Tristan halter in his step. But the count continued, rather more forcefully this time.

"I said get out! It is an order from your king!" James got up, standing and pointing an accusing finger at Tristan as he barked his orders.

"Yet, Your Majesty, you ordered me to come here as well. So which is it?" Tristan said in a deep rich voice, finally coming to a stop, a short distance from the throne. He was dressed in his usually bulky military garb, sending James into a nostalgic trip, reminiscing about earlier days, days when Athar had been at his side…

"Very well," James muttered after a while. Tristan stood there, looking at the monarch before him with disbelief in his eyes.

"Thomas Athar is proven a traitor and a day later you sit here, sulking?" Tristan dared.

"I did not summon you here to give me such remarks, Lord Hawthorne. I will remind you that you are talking to your king. And you will henceforth never mention the name of that man in my presence again." James' jaw tightened as he leaned forward with a vicious frown on his face.

"As you wish, Your Majesty. Then why have you called for me?" Tristan's voice was slightly harsher as he looked upon his king.

"I need someone that I trust to interrogate the prisoner. I need to know his motives. I trust you and the whole palace are aware of his treasonous plans by now," James said, his tone low and strangely neutral. But Tristan saw that the monarch strained as he spoke every word.

"I am aware of the documents found in his apartments, yes. Documents that could've easily been placed there by someone else." The words were bold and provocative. They managed well in making James glare harshly at Tristan, fighting hard not to scream profanities as his fist tightened around the crown, the metal cutting into his skin, drawing blood.

"You may glare at me however much you like, sire, but it will not solve any of your problems."

"Are you suggesting that he is innocent? Despite the overwhelming evidence pointing at the opposite?" There was a slight hint of desperation in James' voice.

"I wouldn't say that, Your Majesty. But speaking with him might give a clearer picture of the whole situation. But I am certain that he couldn't have followed through with his plans by himself. He must've had help from someone," Tristan stated. James sank down in the throne in defeat as he rested his head against the hard back.

"You mean there are more conspirators in the palace then," he deadpanned.

"Yes." A long silence followed. James eyed Tristan from his throne. He looked down, contemplating, thinking. Surprisingly, there was no tension between the two. Both were decided on what they wanted, yet they did not question each other.

"I am not disgracing myself by being in his presence." James said the words slowly, to let their full weight sink in. They were hard to utter, for he would like nothing more than to finally have an excuse to hear what Athar would say. The monarch was conflicted; wanting to go, yet something held him back.

"Of course not, sire."

"You go…" James said, staring into the depths of the rubies of the crown. Blood smudged the polished gold, pure droplets emerged from his wounded hand and tainted the crown. He was too tired to think. It was easier to have other people handle everything for him. Tristan turned to leave, only the words of James stopped him in his step.

"Where did I go wrong?" It wasn't directed at anyone in particular. The sentence was barely a whisper, probably not meant for him. But despite himself, Tristan answered. Hawthorne turned around, looking James straight in the eye; his ocean depths consumed the green orbs of the other.

"Do you really want me to answer that?" His words were loaded, weighing heavily upon the monarch. A fleeting moment went by where Tristan thought James would not answer; the harshness in his tone seemed to have really affected the king. Suddenly a deep, low thunder could be heard in the far distance as it tore through the sky. The storm was upon them, the skies were black as night, angrily staring down at Wessport as if God himself judged the city.

"No," sighed James silently after a while. His head came to rest in his hand as he cast away the crown, the source of all his troubles. It tumbled down the throne and rolled on the marble floor with a loud clatter, coming to stop at Tristan's feet. The masked man sneered at it and eventually turned around and left without a word. He left his king to wallow in self-pity. He knew well that there was nothing he could do for him.

When he reached the far end of the room Tristan turned around to contemplate James. A bright flash of light illuminated the room through the windows as lightning struck somewhere. It allowed Tristan a view of a man who was the very picture of defeat. By the time the loud roar of the thunder came again, Tristan was already out of the hall.

* * *

He had never been in the lower part of the palace: the oldest part of the building. The foundations had belonged to the castle who had stood erected on the sight long before any plans for the palace came to be. It was dark, humid and cold, much like any other dungeon he knew.

Tristan followed the guard, holding a torch high over their heads as they descended further into the pit. The way down to the dungeons was a deep and wide hole in the ground. Spiral stairs along the wall allowed them to descend into the dark inferno. Along the staircase were some cells; thick iron bars were all that stood between the prisoner and their freedom.

The lower down a prisoner was placed, the worse his or her crime. Athar had a cell at the bottom. It was a bigger cell than most, but the light of day would not reach it. The murky darkness and humidity turned the place into a freezer, all year around. Rats ran through the many holes in the walls, their bites carrying diseases that could kill a grown man in less than two nights.

"It just seems strange to me that His Majesty would allow ye to speak to this prisoner here," came the raspy voice of the old guard; the keeper of the dungeons. "He strictly said no one was to speak with him, see?" The man had seen many winters. His back was crooked, making him permanently lean forward. His face bore small scars, slightly deforming his once handsome features. A scruffy and unkempt beard with streaks of silvers made him look ancient.

"You can go and ask him personally. But I suspect it would cost you your position," Tristan growled. The old guard kept quiet. He was stuck between a rock and a hard place. He didn't want to infuriate Tristan further, but he also didn't want to incur the wrath of the king.

"No, no, m'lord. I trust ye." The guard's back tensed visibly as he felt Tristan's furious breath down his neck. They quickly descended the steps, the wails begging for mercy of the prisoners pierced their very souls. Somewhere in the distance, Tristan could hear the screams of pain as no doubt someone was being tortured. He heard the flick of a whip, shortly followed by yet another scream.

As they reached the bottom, rats scoured when light illuminated the round space. There were three doors. Two led to more cellblocks while the third led to the torture chamber; a chamber that had been used since the dawn of the Middle Ages.

"Come'ere, m'lord, lest ye want to get lost in them tunnels that reach under the palace," the guard rasped ominously. He chuckled when the thought of Tristan getting lost in those passageways popped into his mind; aye that would be a satisfying sight to see.

They continued down a damp, cold hallway where cells lined the walls. They were dark rooms unfit for any human being to live in. But at the end of the corridor, Tristan saw the light of wax candles illuminate the last cell. It did not sport any iron bars. It was reinforced with a heavy iron door instead, with an opening at head-level and then at the bottom, to deliver food for the prisoner. The upper part of the door was open and light streamed from the cell.

"Up ye go, Lord Traitor! Ye got a visitor!" screamed the guard in his heavy accent as he fumbled with his keys. Tristan could hear the rustling of a chair as someone got up. The guard opened the door and gripped Tristan by the arm before letting him enter.

"Now, as ye requested, I'll be waitin' by the end of the corridor. Scream when ye need me," he rasped, letting go of the black doublet and closed the iron door behind the masked man as he stepped into the cell.

Tristan took in the surroundings and felt an eyebrow arch in surprise at the sight before him. It was damp and cold, a rotting smell expanded in the room, the stench was unbearable at first but he quickly got used to it.

Hay was spread on the floor to insulate the room as best as it could. It had an elevated bed, to keep the prisoner away from the rats that came and went through the many holes in the walls. It had a table that held some ink and paper and wax candles. And it even had a chair to go with the table. It was not at all what he had been expecting.

By one corner he saw Athar, just as he had seen him the previous day, just a bit more unkempt from the night. He dressed in fine silken clothes. His doublet bore a damask pattern, and he still had his cape around him. The white hairs were slightly disheveled, probably from the struggle he'd put up as they dragged him down the stairs. There was a shadow of a beard growing on his chin.

"Lord Hawthorne," Athar said, rather surprised. "I did not expect you would come–" he was cut short by Tristan who turned around to see that the guard had kept his promise. True to his word, the old man stood at the end of the corridor where he could not hear the words they exchanged.

"I have come here by the request of His Majesty," Tristan said, turning around to once more face Athar. The old man arched an eyebrow suspiciously as he placed both hands behind his back.

"I thought all was said and done," he questioned as he studied Tristan's reaction.

"No, we know you were not the only one involved in this _rebellion_. There are sure to be more people who helped you," came the flat tone of Tristan as he crossed his arms before him.

"I'm innocent," the old man said stubbornly. A brief pause followed where it seemed none of them was willing to speak. The air grew pregnant until Tristan's rich voice finally cut through it.

"Of Linahan's murder I have no doubt," responded Tristan, walking past Athar to sit down in the chair. His response made the old man's eyes widen considerably. The thunder roared outside as the winds picked up more speed. Even in the deepest parts of the castle, both men could sense the electricity of the storm.

"It seems I have friends left in this blasted place, after all," Athar let a breath of relief escape him as he sat down on the bed.

"Don't fool yourself, Lord Athar. You had my respect until I found out about your treachery; before Cardinal Thorpe had such incriminating evidence brought up against you." Tristan twisted in his chair so he was facing the older man.

"Then why do you think me innocent of Linahan's death?"

"If you truly were in your quarters that night then you couldn't possibly have killed Lord Linahan. The wounds were too severe. He could not have walked all the way from your wing to our rooms. He would have bled out before reaching us," Tristan explained, his tone neutral, never showing Athar his emotions.

"Good observation, my lord," Athar smirked. "I was in my room that night. I have no witnesses; I have nothing that proves my innocence. But I assure you, the testimony of that young redhead are as false as they come," his face twisted into a frown.

"I still need to know who else has been cooperating with you in the palace."

"I am innocent, Hawthorne. Someone has seen it fit to frame me. There _are_ conspirators in this palace, but I am not one of them." Athar's words were truthful, he seemed convinced of them himself. But Tristan wouldn't have it. The masked man got up as the thunder roamed outside of the palace walls yet again.

"No, you are not. Explain Alan Moore to me. Or what about your dealings with the English?" Tristan snapped. Athar grew confused as he heard the accusations.

"This is what the king has gathered as evidence against me?" he asked in disbelief.

"No, this is information I've found out myself, gradually, since before being summoned to Wessport." He paced around in the cell, slowly. The rats ran away from his heavy boots as he didn't pay attention to where he was stepping.

"You know, I really thought you were trustworthy at first. I was even willing to place all my trust in you but was saved from dooming myself in the nick of time. To think that Saxton trusted in you," he growled, the words were sharp as blades as he loomed over Athar. There was an uncontrolled anger rising slowly in the masked man, and he wouldn't mind letting it loose. But he fought against his instincts. Despite himself, Tristan still respected the old man too much to roughen him up.

There was something that sparked in Athar's eyes as Tristan mentioned Saxton. Suddenly, the old man regained his calm, as if all would be alright. He let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and sank back down on the hard, filthy bedding. He was calm as he spoke. As calm as a man could be, knowing well that his days were over.

"Then you have been in contact with Saxton?" Athar asked.

"I have," Tristan admitted without fear of being reprimanded. Athar could do nothing against him now. "He said you were the only man I could trust in all of Wessport. To think he was so misguided," Tristan said darkly. His response made Athar's lips twitch, trying to conceal a small smile.

"Then listen to me closely, Hawthorne, for there has been a great mistake done here, on both our parts, but mostly mine. And this mistake will cost me my life." Athar felt the words weigh heavy upon his shoulders as he came to realize what his errors had cost him. When Tristan said nothing, Athar continued. He was glad that the masked man allowed him some decency to at least explain himself.

"You have been very perceptive, Hawthorne." Another roar of the thunder sounded, and the sound was so loud that it seemed to shake the very foundations of the palace. Even the small lights of the wax candles flickered as the air pushed against the walls. "What else made you think that I was involved in this?"

"Our maid, Maria, did not speak falsely yesterday. Linahan's last words were indeed your name. He mentioned my name as well." Athar felt his shoulders sink in defeat at the mention of his friend and his death. But he collected new strength, drawing breath and preparing to unveil everything to Tristan.

"The reason Linahan was murdered was most likely my fault: I am being framed, Hawthorne, however farfetched that may sound to you it is the truth. You see, Saxton was right; I _am_ the only man you can trust in this palace as far as I know. But I feel that if Fawkes were informed of what was going on behind closed doors, he would rally to our side in a heartbeat. The same goes for Lord Rajac and Lord Durun. The reason I am being framed is due to a message I wanted to send to you through Linahan," Athar said as he spilled all the information he knew.

"To me?" Tristan was taken by surprise.

"Yes," he smiled, the wrinkles around the gray eyes crinkled as the orbs lit up, displaying a youthfulness in the man's face that Tristan had never seen before. "There are many secrets kept in this court. Secrets that shouldn't be revealed to just anyone. I do not trust most here. Most of the men I do put my trust in are outside of the court and they, in turn, have sources that inform me of the plotters in the palace. Yet, these conspirators are good at hiding their activities. We have gotten nowhere the last few years, mostly because of the war. As the war ended, they started up again, and we were close to unmasking them."

"Who are _we_?"

"I cannot give you all the names, but I suspected you were familiar with one of them. Henry Saxton told me I could put my trust in a new lord arriving at court, I assumed it to be you. So I studied you, took you in. I even sent Linahan to find out if you were indeed allied with Saxton one day after the lord's assembly." Tristan remembered with a painful memory how he'd manhandled Linahan. He'd almost given the poor man a heart attack. But he had reacted so after Joseph had told him who John Fletcher kept meeting up with.

"The way you scared that poor lad had me doubt myself. I thought that perhaps I was wrong. But I couldn't be certain. So I wanted to make sure. I had Linahan go deliver you a message that told of a time and place I wanted to talk with you, away from the palace and its prying eyes."

"Does the note implicate me?" Tristan suddenly became tense.

"No, do not worry. I never put any names so they never know whom the note was destined for. But be certain that they will search the palace for my "accomplice" now. So you have to lie low so they won't suspect you."

They remained silent for a while. Tristan had an inner battle whether he should reveal all his cards to Athar. He still didn't trust in him fully. But the more Athar revealed to him, the more it all made sense.

"This all still doesn't explain John Fletcher," snapped Tristan in a deep voice. The name made Athar's eyes widen as he recognized it. "During the last battle against the English, a spy sent them information about our troops that nearly cost us the war. He was Alan Moore: sent to the front by Captain John Fletcher. After the war was over and I received my title and went to Cadherra, Moore was in the group that went with me. It was thanks to some very perceptive people in my ranks that I unmasked him and coaxed Fletcher's name out of him. When I returned to Wessport, I had a man guard Fletcher's every move, to find out who he reported to. It was _you_ he kept seeing." Tristan went silent, waiting for Athar to explain himself. The old man let out a deep breath and stared at his shoes in defeat.

"My actions were the ones that doomed me, in the end," he looked up, irritated at the whole situation but never angry. "I am not surrounded by as many trusted people, so I had to gather a lot of the information myself. I knew that Fletcher was in contact with men who wanted to stage a _coup d'état._ I found him and bribed him frequently for the information he was giving the conspirators. I am sure your man saw me with him; because Fletcher only contacts his superiors by other messengers that I have yet to find," Athar said wearily. He sounded utterly defeated and in the vague light of the candles, both men contemplated where the twist of fate had led them. They soon understood that because of a very large misunderstanding one of them was about to lose his life while the other might watch helplessly as a dynasty fell.

Tristan kept processing all the information he had heard. The puzzle pieces slowly started finding their positions. He realized that it was all coming together. John Fletcher, Linahan's death, Athar's supposed treason: he had been misguided in all of it, and it would cost a man his life. He sneaked a glance at Athar, expecting the man would be angry at him, but instead he found a lighthearted smile.

"I see you finally believe me," said Athar, his voice was a bit lighter. It seemed a weight had been taken off his shoulders. Tristan sat down and leaned forward in his chair. Wessport had outwitted them both, played them against each other. Both had been too paranoid and cautious to contact the other directly, and the end result was a catastrophe.

"These true traitors will still infiltrate the castle and take down the king," Tristan muttered after a while.

"They will do it soon too," Athar agreed. "I can't do anything. It is up to you now." He stared at Tristan.

"But why would they want to overthrow the king? Especially when they have no one else to put on the throne. Surely a mere lord would not have so many supporters for no reason?" the masked man asked as he gritted his teeth. "Saxton said that there was a secret guarded by this court, does it have to do with this rebellion?"

Athar looked at him for a long while–as if weighing his options. He seemed to judge Tristan in that split second, deciding or not if he should fully trust him. When the old duke had decided he finally spoke. His expression grew serious and his words grave as he underlined the importance of what he was about to say. He rose from the bed and walked to the door to make sure that no one was listening to them.

"What I am about to say cannot leave this room. It is a burden I've carried for decades, a secret that could very well ignite a civil war if it were ever made public. It is a secret that men have given their lives for." He turned around and waited for Tristan to say something. He was stricken by the conviction in Athar's countenance; it seemed like a heavy burden to bear indeed.

"You have my word." Tristan would take the secret to his grave–if he had to. Athar leaned against the door, every cell in his body fighting against revealing such information. He had kept it to himself for so long that it seemed strange to be giving it now; in a damp, murky cell, to a masked man he barely knew. Yet, a small part of him, his instinct, told him that he was doing the right thing: he was trusting the right man. And so, Athar let go of his fears for the first time in over twenty years, jumping into the abyss, revealing what should never be revealed. He did it for his king and his country: he did because he thought it was right.

"Good. Then I give you the reason for this whole conspiracy and treason." His heart sped up as he watched the intense eyes of Tristan grow curious as they took in the change in the man before him. Tristan saw Athar hesitate before speaking. It was just a slight moment, a moment where he thought that the old duke would turn back on his word, and take the secret to his own grave as well. But then, there, in the depths of those gray eyes, hope and determination shone. Athar saw something in Tristan, something he could not entirely place. It was greater than respect, it was greater than a sense of kinship. It was raw trust.

"These lords, for I know that the plotters are indeed lords, are conspiring to dethrone the king and place someone else of royal blood on the throne," he said. It was something he'd been insinuating at before, but he repeated it now to clear up any misunderstandings. This was the great conspiracy.

"They plan to use one of the princesses?" Tristan asked in disbelief.

"No," Athar chuckled, despite himself. He walked over to stand by the table, looking down at ink and paper. He never remembered why he had asked for it in the first place: he had no one left in his life to write to. "Someone _else_ ," he underlined the last word, almost wanting Tristan to figure it out himself.

"But there isn't anyone else. Magnus Fell only had one child before he died," Tristan could not believe what Athar was implying.

"No, not Magnus Fell, but Philip Fell did," Athar smirked. He was satisfied as he saw the masked man's expressive eyes widen until they looked about ready to fall out from their sockets. It was an expression he had never seen in those eyes before. It made Tristan stare at him even longer, processing what the other was saying. "And no, I have not gone mad. His second wife; Leonore Valois, had a child in secret. She was only three months pregnant when Philip passed away."

"That is very farfetched; to insinuate that a man in his eighties could still sire a child," Tristan spoke, but he didn't sound so certain anymore.

"It is farfetched but entirely true. We whisked the child away from the dangers of court and from the biggest danger of them all; Magnus Fell. You see, Magnus Fell usurped the throne from his brother. King Philip never died peacefully in his sleep as many think. I am sure the man would've lived to be a hundred, for he was fit as a fiddle until the last few weeks of his life. No, Lord Hawthorne, he was poisoned by his own brother," Athar said as his jaw tensed. Retelling a story he knew by heart and that he'd kept for so long to himself was harder than he thought. Philip Fell had been a good friend of his, not just his king. It had been extremely hard acknowledging Magnus as sovereign of Angloa, for he could never prove that the younger brother had poisoned his older brother.

"I could do nothing until it was too late. I hid away his young bride and hid her in a secluded estate in the south of the country. She had her child and raised it up as best as she could. They constantly moved from one of my estates to the other, to keep away from Magnus' men. When a few years had passed the king found them. I thought he had killed it until recently. I know who the plotters want on the throne; someone they–the lords, can control. Meanwhile, this child has a legit claim, for it is the rightful heir to the throne. Especially since James' father Magnus did usurp his own brother. If this information were to get out in the open, it could bode disaster for the kingdom."

"And now he seeks to be king by any means necessary," Tristan said thoughtfully as he stared pensively into the hay covered floor. He thought all cards had been laid on the table, but Athar had yet another revelation.

"I never said the child was male." Athar looked enigmatically at Tristan. As if savoring the moment. "It is a girl!"

"A girl?" The new turn of events had Tristan's mind spinning. It was too much information to take in at once. "But if a woman had the right to the throne, then surely Carina Fell would be first in line," he continued, trying to make sense of it all.

"The mother of both Miriam and Carina Fell was only a countess, married off to the king for political purposes at the beginning of his reign. Their marriage secured his hold of the northern regions. She died after giving birth to the younger sister; Miriam. Philip remarried when he was much older: a princess, the sister of the current king of France. We all thought their marriage was barren until the queen confided in me. If that child chooses, she could have the backing of France in an eventual civil war, and then we are all doomed," Athar sighed.

"But I don't understand," Tristan said slowly. "You helped keep this child safe, you agree that she has the right to the throne of Angloa, yet you do not want her to overthrow the king?"

"She is misguided, Hawthorne. The lords that support her only seek to benefit from this rebellion themselves. She would be a puppet queen and Angloa would fall into the hands of vicious and greedy men." Athar drew a deep breath and continued. "They will strike soon. James' insistence on having the lords of the realm give up their armies was the last straw. These men, these _traitors,_ want to go back to the way it used to be; _they_ want to rule again. Any day could be the day they strike."

"I have an idea when that might be," Tristan said through gritted teeth. The cell grew void of any more words as the masked man processed the information he had received. There was a steady buildup of guilt growing on his already burdened shoulders as he stared emptily in front of him.

"I cannot save you," he whispered. A wave of helplessness washed over him. Tristan realized that even though all of this was going on behind closed doors, Athar was still charged for treason, most likely to be executed. He could not even look into the eyes of the man that would lose his life because he had failed to act. Tristan blamed himself entirely for this. "My lord… I am– "

"No, you cannot save me. But I think I have put up with this blasted palace life for a long while now." Gray eyes stared into the distance as he rose from the bed. "My hour has come and I accept it. There is little left for me in this life." Athar's tone was light, void of regret. The old man did not blame Tristan.

"It is up to you now, Hawthorne. I have told you all I know, I cannot give you more, only my support in spirit and my blessing. You have to carry this burden, you have to stop these traitors from overtaking the throne and James' crown." He stepped over and placed a heavy hand on the tense shoulder. Tristan's head was bent down in defeat as Athar stood over him. In that moment, the older man looked at the younger one, passing over the mantle.

"That is why you must win against Alistair tomorrow at dawn," he said as the heavy head finally rose to meet the kind, gray eyes. Tristan had forgotten about the duel and sighed at yet another responsibility. He rose from the chair and his height seemed to tower over the other. They both stood there and thunder roared for the last time, weaker this time. The storm had passed, and the tension in the air with it.

Tristan had no words for the other man, but the look in his eyes was enough for Athar. There was no more to be said. He took the other man's hand in his, in the old traditional handshake, grabbing Athar's arm with his, showing his respect.

Tristan banged on the iron door. He soon heard the eager footsteps of the guard, who no doubt wanted to get the masked man out of there so he himself could go to sleep and let another guard take his place.

Athar stared at the broad silhouette that left the cell and felt how his heart was light. He didn't need to worry anymore, something told him that he had trusted the right man in the end: Tristan's eyes had confirmed as much to him. The old man stalked to his bed, growing suddenly weary. The worry had left him and as soon as his head hit the hard pillow, he fell into a deep and peaceful slumber. Athar had never known such sleep for years. The fact that he would most likely die did not seem to affect him at all: he was finally and truly at peace with himself.

 **Note: The Fell family tree will be uploaded on my tumblr: isabellesumnerff . tumblr .. com (just remove the spaces) :) Thanks for reading!**


	19. Chapter 19

**A TALE OF ANGLOA**

 _Chapter 19_

* * *

 _February 15_ _th_ _\- Wessport_

The storm of the night had swept past the region swiftly, discharging the cold tension in the air. It had been a strange storm, for it had not rained. Instead, the powerful winds had mixed with the heavy downfall of snowflakes. The black clouds released the ice crystals that had darted to the ground while thunder and lightning danced around Wessport, one never far from the other. It had been an amazing sight, something few had ever seen, and even fewer would get to see again.

It was still early morning. Many had gone to their beds after the winds had calmed and lightning and thunder had ceased. But there were still those who roamed the apartments and halls of the palace. There were those who could not sleep, for their minds and souls alike were weighed heavy. Daybreak was but a few hours away. A duel to the death was soon to take place in the white vastness that stretched out beyond Wessport.

Little was said in that parlor as Christine Vega paced around, sleep evading her at every moment. Tristan was sitting in front of the fire, sharpening his rapier, knowing fully well that it would not be Alistair's weapon of choice. But the monotonous action calmed him.

After everything they had been through, they were surprised that no tension occupied the vast space of that room. Only worry. Christine did not doubt in Tristan's abilities. Her eyes searched for him; a shadow against the flames that licked the inner walls of the fireplace. She was certain he would do everything in his power to beat Alistair.

The events of the previous days played in his mind. It all came crashing down quickly now around him. The memories were still fresh in his mind; too much for him to process all at once: King Magnus had usurped his brother Philip. King Philip had a third daughter who, together with unknown lords of the court, conspired to overthrow James and claim Angloa.

It was a lot to wrap his head around, it was information he did not yet know with whom he could share.

But when Christine looked at him; his back relaxed; for the first time in a long time. His hands guided the stone up and down against the blade, the sound of metal and stone clashing. She smiled, a warm feeling spreading within her as her eyes rested on him.

Tristan had said nothing after returning from interrogating Athar. But whatever had been said, she could not read it in his countenance. He masked it so well that if she didn't know better; she thought he was at ease.

"One would think you are to attend a picnic, not a duel," she smiled sadly as she sat down next to him. She heard him chuckle faintly as he worked on the sword. Monica was preparing Tristan's clothes: his military garb. They were easier to move around in than the newer clothes he'd gotten for court. A few hours before dawn the maid went to fetch Fawkes, Rajac, and Joseph. The three of them would ride to the meadow, meeting Alistair and Braun. Tristan did not doubt that there would be a substantial crowd. He knew Christine would want to go. He had never given his permission, but some part of him knew the stubborn young woman would not listen.

"A duel in winter, fighting in the deep snow. There has to be a first time for everything," he said in a velvety voice looking at Christine. He took in her beauty, her searching eyes and how tired she was. She had never looked more beautiful to him than in that moment. Christine unknowingly inched closer to him as the magical time before dawn neared. It was that moment before the sun rose when the black sky became soft as the colors of early morning slowly invaded it; painting a picture no painter would ever capture, however hard they tried. She placed her hand on his, her action making him stop. He let go of the wet stone and put down the rapier, directing his gaze at her.

"After this duel let us go _home_ ," she said, staring into his eyes. There was longing in her voice as she uttered the last word. Outside of the palace, the dark sky was slowly turning. The astronomical dawn changing the gradient of the heavens. Black slowly morphed into lighter hues of blue the closer it came to the horizon. It was soon time to depart, yet the couple wanted to stay as they were, in the other's company.

"Home." Tristan savored the words. He thought of only one place: Cadherra. It was home now. As he looked at Christine, he knew that it was there he wanted to go, with her. He smiled, his eyes crinkling slightly at the corners and the depths of the oceans in his orbs lit up as light shone through them. Christine took in the sight of him then. The mask that had always been between them; that black piece of leather that had scared her at one time, but now only seemed another barrier to better understand him. For she truly wanted that: to get to know the man she cared for.

There was no need for exchange of words. So much could be said between them without having to talk. She reveled silently in their closeness, took in his scent: a fresh scent of pine, wet stone, and leather. Her lips curled into a soft smile as she rested her head on his shoulder, staring into the fire. Yes, she could sit like this forever. Tristan's chin came to rest on her head, he dared to wrap his arm around her petite form, afraid at first. Maybe she'd shy away. But when she didn't move, he came to understand that Christine wouldn't do that; she wouldn't shy away from him anymore. His heart sped up as his arm wrapped around her and came to rest in her hand, their fingers lacing together.

"You know," her soft voice said, melting into the present like a dull ray of sunshine finding its way through a bolted window. "I always wondered," she continued as her smile grew bigger. "Why haven't you married me yet?"

It hadn't seemed so bold a question in her mind, but the moment she asked it her heart skipped a beat. The steady warm breath on her hair grew slightly faster; as did his heartbeat. She could feel it, being so close to him. Come to think of it, sitting like this had been natural to them, but only now did they realize just how close they were. Tristan relaxed after a while and she could hear the smile in his voice.

"I didn't want to pressure you," he said in a light tone. There it was again: that soft voice, syllables rolling off his tongue like sweet honey. It wasn't at all the growl or deep rumble she'd grown so used to. Christine preferred this voice more; she was certain it was his true voice. She squeezed his hand and sighed slightly.

"I see. My reaction to you at the beginning was…" she trailed off, not really knowing what to say.

"Precisely," Tristan responded. "So I didn't want you to feel uncomfortable. There are eh… certain things a husband and wife share, and I wasn't entirely certain that you were ready for such a thing. Especially not with me," he explained slowly. There was a hint of restraint in his voice. Christine felt guilty. She understood then, that by being so scared of him, recoiling at the very sight of him, she must have deeply hurt him. "I wanted to give you an opportunity to break off the engagement; if you ever felt the need."

Christine didn't know when it had changed. But she knew one thing: she wanted to be with Tristan. There were still many things she didn't know about him, but they had a lifetime to figure it out. He had given her room to decide, and she had made her decision. She couldn't see herself with anyone else. She didn't care that she'd never seen his face, she didn't care if he was disfigured under that mask.

"I am ready for such a commitment now," Christine said. It was a soft whisper, dancing through the air like the flames in the fireplace. The light of the horizon was slowly trailing up the night sky, pushing away the stars to ready it for the arrival of the sun. To her surprise, she could feel his heart speed up again as Tristan tensed slightly. His head shifted, leaving hers and looking down at her face. She twisted hers so that she was staring up into his eyes. There were so many questions now shining through his orbs and she could almost feel his eyebrows furrow under the mask.

"You wish to get married?" he asked in utter disbelief. He never thought in a million years that Christine would push the conversation in such a direction. Then, despite himself, a sly smile grew on his lips. "You're not just saying this because you believe I'm about to die, are you?" he teased. Christine chuckled.

"We have been engaged since November, my lord. I have had time to adjust." She never admitted to caring for him, but they both knew, words did not have to be spoken to express such a thing. She was surprised when Tristan seemed conflicted by what she was saying.

"I always suspected that you would break off the engagement," he confessed. "I will marry you, of course. But there are complications that–" he was cut off by Christine who put a caring hand on his cheek.

"I am certain that I will come to know one day what hides under this mask. But I accept that you have to wear it, and I will accept whatever lies underneath it. However foul or horrid you might think yourself without it, I do not care. I know you, my lord. And in the future I'd wish to know you even better," she assured him. It was the first time Christine had spoken such caring words toward him and he was completely taken off guard. Tristan got up just as a knock sounded on the door. Monica entered, swiftly followed by Fawkes, Rajac, Durun and Joseph.

"It is time, Hawthorne," came the tense voice of General Fawkes as he stood there, dressed in his dark military garb. Christine stood up, her hands gathered in front of her as a frown grew on her face.

"Already?" She didn't want Tristan to go. There were so many things left unsaid, so many things she wanted to talk to him about. Just in case.

"Yes, my lady," Rajac's voice said in a faint whisper as he threw Tristan a piece of bread. "You should eat something on the way. The melancholy faces stared at him. They wanted to believe in him, but it seemed only Joseph continued to have faith in the masked man. Tristan looked at the bread and then at Christine. He swiftly pulled his cape around him and went to say his goodbyes. He bowed before her. Soon the five men had left the parlor while the sky turned from midnight blue to softer hues as the sun was no more than an hour away. The horizon was a light blue and gradually changed into an orange tone as the yellow globe of fire neared.

Christine watched as the door closed and Monica stood there, asking if her ladyship would like some breakfast. After a few minutes, Christine went to her chamber and dressed in warmer clothes: a beige gown lined in gray fur with a deep hood. She found her gloves and a warm wool shawl to throw around her shoulders. When she entered the parlor Monica stood there, dumbfounded.

"Where is her ladyship going at this hour?"

"To the duel. Where else?" Christine said matter-of-factly.

"But didn't his lordship state that you were not allowed to go?"

"We both know I am going either way. You may stay here or come with me, the choice is yours, Monica. I am not making you do anything you don't want to do."

The maid stared at Christine and then at the floor, shaking her head.

"I cannot allow you to go, my lady. I must ask you to stay here," Monica drawled as she came to stand in front of the door. Her eyes grew thrice when Christine promptly pushed her out of the way. It seemed as if some part of Antonia Coticelli had rubbed off on the girl. If Monica wasn't going with her, then she would go by herself.

* * *

The road before them stretched into the woods up ahead. Morrow's Glade lay just ahead. It was a quaint clearing heavily visited by the local gentry during the summer. It lay abandoned when the snow of winter coated the land.

Tristan sat on Cid, his gray stallion, and swayed with the mighty beast. Even now, moments before his confrontation with Alistair, his mind could only drift to other events. Christine, Athar, the king, Angloa, and conspiracy was all that occupied his mind. He paid little attention to Alistair. The arrogance in Tristan was strong, for he knew he would win. He had also thought of what he would do to Alistair when he'd win, and he savored that feeling.

But as they silently waded through the dunes of snow, the steady muted sound of hooves hitting the ground echoing through the vast space, Tristan gritted his teeth. What Athar had revealed would change the whole political structure of Wessport. Athar had been framed: someone knew his importance to the king. James needed to know of Athar's innocence and get ready for a hostile takeover. A takeover that he was certain would happen soon, too soon. Tristan had promised not to talk about the third living princess who was fighting for the throne. But Athar had a right to keep his life, for he was indeed a loyal servant, always true to the crown.

James had not wanted to see him.

When Tristan had returned from the pit, asking to see the monarch, he had been denied access by the guards. The king had retired for the night and wanted no visitors. Tristan grew frustrated and had at one point tried to force his way past, only to be threatened with a dungeon cell himself; unthinkable as he had a duel in the morning.

And so, he found himself on that horse, staring at the sky as it morphed into day.

"It seems we shall have a clear day," muttered Fawkes tiredly. No cloud graced the heavens. The old general was indeed weary. His closest friend was locked away with charges of high treason, and he was to be Tristan's second in this duel. Fawkes was torn. He wanted to rush to Athar's side and help persuade the king, but he knew deep in his heart that his words had little importance against the overwhelming evidence. Yet, Fawkes chose to ignore the evidence and testimony. He chose to believe in Athar and his innocence.

"How is he?" It was so muted that the words almost escaped him at first. But Tristan heard them, his head snapping to the direction of the general. Fawkes and the other men that rode with him were the only ones, except Christine, who knew he had visited Athar.

"Better than expected, considering…" Tristan trailed off. He didn't know what else to say. What else was there to say? Fawkes accepted those words, choosing to interpret them in his own way.

After that small exchange, none of the four men riding by his side said anything. They all kept quiet as their horses took them into the woods. The sky was now golden. High up over the horizon, some stars still looked down on them, twinkling faintly as gold and orange hues rose with each passing moment.

They finally made it to their destination. The trees surrounding the glade were covered in thick frost and no sign of animal life could neither be seen nor heard. Soon, however, the stillness of the morning was broken by the sound of horses and carriages.

Half of the palace's courtiers had journeyed from the upper circle to the outskirts of the city, just for a glimpse of the duel between Tristan Hawthorne and Matthew Alistair. Ladies and Gentlemen of the court were dressed in finery as they descended their carriages or got off from their horses. The air was heavy and few spoke. The usual chatty aristocrats seemed more nervous than the participants of the duel.

Lord Alistair soon arrived with his ensemble as well, setting up their spot on the other side of the glade. It was almost like an arena where two gladiators were about to fight to the death. Instead of dry sand and a screaming crowd, they had knee-high snow and silent onlookers, there out of curiosity, not for the bloodshed. It would be the most talked-about event in Wessport, to be certain.

Tristan stared at the circle where he and Alistair would fight and he felt the electric tension in the air as the anticipation of the fight neared. He could only smile, eager to take Alistair head on, like a matador facing the ruthless bull in the ring.

They had a pageboy take care of their horses as they got together to talk about the duel. It was the time to plan a strategy and how to best go about it.

Soon, in the middle of the glade, two figures stepped up and spoke. It was General Fawkes and Lord Savoie, setting the terms and conditions for the fight. Tristan was surprised that Braun wasn't there. He was Lord Alistair's second, after all.

"My lord, where is Lord Braun?" asked Fawkes curtly as he stepped up to meet the Frenchman. It was time to set the terms and conditions for the fight.

"Unable to attend due to illness, I am afraid," responded Savoie in an equal tone. Fawkes accepted it with a now. Savoie pushed the pleasantries aside and jumped straight to the question at hand. "Lord Alistair chooses combat by longsword."

"So be it. The duel will be until the first blood is drawn," Fawkes said, his eyes never leaving the face of Otto. It was evident that both men were not too keen on finding themselves on the opposite band of the situation. Fawkes respected Savoie as much as Savoie respected Fawkes. They shook hands and parted ways.

Tristan stood on one side of the glade, with some of his new friends by his side, speaking in whispers with him. But he mostly ignored their words. A red carpet had been placed on the ground for him to stand on. Two flags, one of each side, representing the coat-of-arms of Cadherra flapped proudly in the soft wind. On the other side, Alistair sat down in a wooden chair, with a carpet on the snow covered ground and two flags representing his lands as well. Around the glade, footmen and pages had swiftly lit torches, placing them in the ground to light up the partially dark space. Dawn was less than an hour away, but it was still hard to see well.

They all took the time to once again go through each fighter's best choice in combat style.

As each minute passed more and more people came by horse, carriage or even walking. The whole glade was soon encircled by curious onlookers. Although dueling was allowed, it was not common practice to have such a crowd. It seemed as if they were hosting summer games and jousting, instead of a deadly duel.

"It will be by sword," said Fawkes as he reached Tristan. Tristan's long black cape flapped in the wind as he went to the selections of swords without a word. Rajac, Durun, and Fawkes had provided him with their fair selections of weapons. Tristan eyed the wide selection of swords. Fawkes walked up by him, looking at the weapons that had been placed on the wooden rig.

"Alistair will most likely choose a _Zweihänder_ ; a double-handed longsword. It has always been his weapon of choice and what he is most comfortable with."

The wind tore at the cape and there was a rising tension as the masked man had yet to choose his weapon. "I have more experience with a one-handed weapon, such as a dress sword." Fawkes eyebrows knitted together, they had spoken of this before.

"How did you survive up at Castell fighting off the English then?" he asked.

"I managed," Tristan answered tersely. Fawkes sighed, but the old man said nothing. His eyes wandered to the surrounding crowd and by a carriage, he managed to spot a much too familiar face by now. He saw Christine Vega, standing alone next to a horse. A serious look was plastered on her face and her jaw grew tense. She had come there to watch or support her fiancé. But none seemed to notice her presence, and Fawkes did not wish to alert Tristan, for she might distract him.

"You would do well in choosing a longsword as well, my lord. A dress sword would be shattered instantly by the _Zweihänder_." Tristan viewed the selection once more and selected a lighter longsword. It was sharpened and had a handle ending in a flattened knob with inscriptions in Latin. Black leather encircled the handle itself, offering a better grip for the wielder. He felt the weight of the weapon in his hand; as if thinking about it.

"Where is Lord Braun? Was he not Lord Alistair's second?" asked Tristan hastily as his eyes jumped around the meadow.

"He is not able to attend, due to an illness. Lord Savoie was asked to replace him instead," reasoned Fawkes repeating wat Otto had said moments before. Tristan kept looking at the sword pensively, the thought-process evident in his stance and his eyes.

"Strange, is it not?" he said after a pregnant pause.

"What is?" Fawkes was confused. Tristan swept a hand over the crowd, motioning at its sheer size.

"This duel," he turned to stare directly into Fawkes' eyes. "I find this whole picture strange; the absence of Alistair's original second, such a large crowd…" he trailed off. He watched as Fawkes' face suddenly turned white as he understood what Tristan was implying.

"The palace stands practically empty, for I even see some soldiers here," Tristan continued to point out.

"You suspect an attack on the palace?"

"The documents Cardinal Thorpe presented against Athar when he was charged with treason were real, that much I know. There were elaborate plans to attack the palace, and they just managed to remove one of the men that had to power to stop it. And the rest of us, you and I included, they managed to coax out here, during the premise of a duel," Tristan said, fuming at his own foolishness. He had no doubt Alistair had wanted him to issue a challenge. Tristan had practically seen to it himself that the palace stood empty.

"But we cannot leave now," Fawkes murmured, his eyes glancing at the crowd, still growing in number. "And this is just speculation on your part, isn't it?" Tristan never responded to that. He couldn't confide all he knew in Fawkes, not yet.

"Joseph!" Tristan said, the other man hastily making his way over to them. The masked man turned to Fawkes. "I trust Joseph with my life," he explained. "We only need one man to confirm that something is amiss at the palace and we rush over there in a heartbeat." Joseph came up to them, a confused look on his face.

"I am sorry to ask this of you, for I know you wish to be here. But I need a favor. I need you to ride back to the palace and look out for any unusual activity."

"Unusual activity?" Joseph asked.

"You know what I mean," Tristan said. Those words were enough for Joseph. He sneaked a glance at Fawkes, not knowing how much Tristan had confided in the man. The young blond stepped closer to Tristan, jittery, knowing something big was about to happen.

"What do I do if I _do_ find some suspicious activity?" he whispered, his large eyes searching Tristan's for answers. Joseph had never shown it, but the more he found out together with Tristan, the more unsettled he became. He couldn't understand how the other was so calm on the outside.

"You get away from there and return to me immediately. Do not try to interfere on your own."

"You think they will attack now?"

"I know they will. I just need a final piece of confirmation," Tristan growled in low tones as his eyes drifted to Alistair. He was ready.

Fawkes kept glancing at Alistair with disbelief in his eyes as Joseph ran for his horse unnoticed.

"Lord Alistair is a traitor?" Fawkes could not believe it.

"That is what I want to figure out," Tristan uttered, raising a hand, signaling that he was ready. Savoie accepted and informed Alistair.

Dawn was now minutes away. Christine stood alone in the crowd, realizing Fawkes had recognized her so she pulled the deep hood over her head. She didn't want to distract Tristan as he fought. Monica had put up quite the resistance as Christine had pushed past her. The brunette had rushed after her, even calling some guards to help keep her there. Christine had been quicker, running as fast as her legs could carry her to the stables where she'd taken the first saddled horse she could find. Only later did she discover that said horse; a mare with caramel coat and white mane was the favored horse of Lady Monica Savoie. It had only been all the more reason for her to steal the horse to venture to Morrow's Glade.

She now stood there, shivering out of the cold she felt, but also out of fear and excitement. Christine felt alone and wished she had someone to share her doubts and fears with that moment. But the young woman put her faith in Tristan. As she saw him towering over the many weapons he could choose, she grew considerably calm. Christine knew Alistair was good, but she suspected Tristan was better. Something in the pit of her stomach told her as much. It was time she started to fully trust in him and his abilities.

Unbeknownst to her, she was shaking; out of cold, anticipation or worry, she never knew.

The horizon had taken a reddish tint as the sun now peeked up from behind it. The fiery globe was slowly rising up in the sky as the daylight reached Wessport. The stars had disappeared, and the forest grew deathly silent: it was time for the duel.

Tristan shredded his bulky doublet and leather jerkin, only wearing a thin black shirt. It would allow him more movement but less protection.

Tristan felt the weight of the sword in his gloved hands once more.

"Take him down," Fawkes spat, hatred shining in his eyes as he glared at Alistair. If Alistair had somehow caused Athar's imprisonment, Fawkes wanted to watch the man suffer endlessly. His uncharacteristic remark sent Rajac's eyebrows arching high up into his hairline. But he offered Tristan some encouraging words as well.

"The day is yours, Hawthorne. Seize it," Simon said, his poetic remark coaxed a small smile from the masked man. Tristan never continued the conversation, but looked knowingly at Fawkes, who only met his gaze with the same knowing eyes. They both needed a confirmation before acting on mere speculation.

The torches around the tree line were not needed anymore, but the fire in each of them still danced as the soft wind picked up the flames. The sun rose higher with each passing second and it was time for the duel. As Tristan prepared to go out onto that field Fawkes stopped him.

"I do not know what will happen out there. I will not lie, I have had my doubts, but I choose to ignore them and put my full trust in you, Hawthorne. For you have shown me again and again that there is more to you than meets the eye. But, with that said, if anything were to happen to you know that I will look after Miss Vega and make sure nothing happens to her. You have my word." Fawkes hand was outstretched and opened, waiting for Tristan to give him the old Angloan handshake. The masked man did not need to respond, the look in his eyes said it all: surprise, appreciation, and respect shone in those orbs. He took Fawkes' hand in his own and both men parted ways. Durun was the last to wish Tristan luck.

"Do not roughen him up too much, Hawthorne. His corpse needs to be identifiable after this," the young man joked as he sent the count on his way. They then watched in tense anticipation as he stepped out onto the snow covered field.

Alistair had briefly spoken to Savoie and some other lords on his side. Tristan snickered as he saw the pompous fool with his sword by his side. Alistair dressed as if he was going to attend a ball. The young lord was wearing a tight doublet in ruby red with matching hoses. His boots extended well beyond his knees. He looked like a peacock ready to parade before the crowd.

When Alistair saw Tristan he snickered at him as well. The man dressed like death: completely in black. He had simple lines, simple breeches with boots ending bellow the knee. A thin black shirt that Alistair would shred to pieces as he cut away at the man with his sharpened sword. But what Alistair wanted the most was to tear away that mask from that proud fool. He would revel in the sight of the once proud and arrogant man, then on the ground, about to die—his face unmasked. Alistair would show Tristan's true self: probably a scarred and hideous face.

The tension between them was unbearable. They both noted the depth of the snow, reaching just to below their knees. It would be hard to fight in, but none made a remark about it.

The soft murmur of the crowd died.

The Glade was eerily silent, only the flutter of fabric could be heard as the soft winds pushed through the trees.

"I hope you've put your affairs in order, Hawthorne," Alistair said smugly as he made some final checks on his sword, eager to sink the metal deep into the flesh of the other man.

"Likewise," Tristan muttered, not sure where Alistair's eagerness to talk suddenly came from.

"It will be a thrill to see you beg for your life when I'm done with you," Alistair continued. He was about to say something else when Tristan pointed his sword at him.

"Less talk, more fight, Alistair."

The sun was now over the horizon and illuminated the glade, the naked trees cast soft shadows on the white snow as both men stared.

"Very well," Alistair narrowed his eyes, getting into a fighting stance. Both were ready as their seconds signaled for the duel to commence.

All was quiet for a while. Somewhere, a bird chirped, singing to its heart's content as the beautiful morning revealed itself in the delicate rays of the sun. The public stared at the scene before them, holding their breath as they waited for the clash of blades.

Alistair was the first to strike, his sword crashing hard down on Tristan's. The steel ripped a loud echo through the meadow, the sound stronger due to the tense silence.

The masked man blocked the attack; pushing Alistair away. The other lost his footing, grunting in the process.

Tristan came to his side, pushing the sword away, going for his throat. It was by sheer luck that Alistair managed to block the metal before it sank into his flesh.

They danced around each other, no one never really managing to touch the other. The clash of steel upon steel was the only sound in the meadow as both lords attacked. Soon, however, Alistair started emitting sounds of frustration as he found that he could not reach Tristan. The arrogant lord reverted to fouler tricks the more tired and frustrated he got.

At one moment, Alistair swept his feet under Tristan's; tumbling him to the ground, putting all his weight into the next thrust of his _Zweihänder_.

Tristan gritted his teeth as the sword came down hard on his. His own weapon came up over his chest, parrying the attack. One hand held the handle while the other was at the other end of the sword, near the tip, to keep the metal from slicing into him. Both men could hear the public gasp as the fight turned around. Alistair could not help himself and pushed on the sword further—Tristan fighting to keep its side away from his neck. The other man put his whole weight on it and took delight in watching Tristan fight against him. He knew he had him then and there and he savored every second of it.

"Know that once I have killed you and unmasked your pathetic face, I will take delight in going after that little fiancée of yours," he whispered into Tristan's ear. He was breathing heavily from the strain of the fight. The other man felt the sharp edge of his own sword cut into his gloved hand, slowly slicing through the leather.

"Not if I have anything to say about it, nor His Majesty, Lord Fawkes or anyone in their decent mind," Tristan struggled. He kept pushing against the man who was practically on top of him. Alistair's devilish smile only widened as his green eyes crinkled at the edges.

"They will not be able to do much, for they will be occupied with other things," Alistair said enigmatically. Tristan's eyes widened slightly

"What do you mean?" He knew where Alistair was going.

Alistair chuckled, he liked that look of sudden surprise in Tristan's eyes. It made him feel powerful, seeing the other squirm under him, like a lamb before a wolf.

"All will change now, Hawthorne. Too bad you will not live to see it," he grinned, pushing against the sword. The edge was a breath away from Tristan's neck as pearls of sweat started forming under his mask. A few moments passed as Alistair could see how the masked man's mind processed everything.

"This duel is a ruse," Tristan struggled, as his arms started shaking. The people around watched astonished as Alistair was moments away from slicing the throat of the masked man open. How could a man so easily defeated in single-hand combat have won against the British?

Christine watched, shaking as Alistair was about to end her fiancé's life. Whispers were exchanged as the crowd watched in utter bewilderment and disbelief. The wind tore at the naked crowns of the trees just as the fires of the torches danced even more violently. Fawkes's eyes widened just as his brows furrowed. He had no idea what Tristan was doing; why on earth was he _talking_ to Alistair when he was so close to being sliced down? None could hear the words both of them exchanged.

"I thought you would figure it out sooner–"

"You are the ones plotting against His Majesty. Lord Braun is in on it as well. That is why he is absent. He is leading a raid against the palace as you keep me here, as well as more than half of court," Tristan said, the sword inching closer and closer. It now rested against his throat, slowly pressing against it. The sharp edge of his own sword had cut through his leather glove and pressed painfully against his bare hands. Hot pain shook his nerves as droplets of blood that fell to the snow. Blood had been drawn, but that wasn't enough for Alistair. He wanted Tristan's blood to paint the whole field of the meadow red.

"Very perceptive. I see Athar got to you, in the end. But you flatter me. I am not the one leading this fight. It is Lord Braun who is the brains," Alistair chuckled, proud to reveal the elaborate plan he had taken part in. "Just know that once the king is gone, your fiancée will fall even further from grace. I will take her as mine and use her as I see fit," Alistair said with a crazed expression, taunting Tristan. He grinned at the pained expression that emerged in the other man's eyes.

They struggled, one chuckled as he pressed his entire weight on his sword. The other felt his arms give out.

A brief second passed as Alistair prepared to end the other's life. Then something went wrong.

All turned around.

The expression of pain and fear in Tristan's eyes was replaced by a calm fury that Alistair had only seen one time before; the time Tristan had issued the duel. How could that be? The man laying before him was about to die, a sword against his throat. All Alistair had to do was to give an extra push and the metal would cut through the throat and it would all end. Any other man would be struggling in panic as he realized his time had come. Yet, Tristan smiled. He actually smiled!

"Thank you, Alistair, that was all I needed," Tristan smirked as he got a knee under Alistair, pushing him off over his head in one swift, elegant move. Alistair could only widen his eyes as he flew over Tristan, landing hard on his face in the snow.

The masked man got up casually and stood, waiting for the other man patiently. The crowd stared in disbelief.

Alistair struggled to rise to his feet and turned around, charging fast against the masked man. Tristan side-stepped and his hand pushed on Alistair's back, making the man fall yet again. A small chuckle rose in the onlookers. Their laughter made Alistair grow furious as he got back up again. He ran in a pure rage toward Tristan like a crazed bull, ready to strike with his sword. But the metal never found the other as Tristan effortlessly avoided every single attack in an elegant series of motions that were completely alien to them. He tripped Alistair once more. The chuckle from the crowd grew as it was evident he had been toying with Alistair the whole time.

"You didn't think it would be that easy, did you?" Tristan said arrogantly, smirking as Alistair stared at him confused.

"You were losing on purpose?!" he exclaimed as the cogs in his head turned.

"I had to prove a theory, which you just confirmed," Tristan said. "Athar has spent years at this court, trying to figure out who has been involved in taking down the king. You just revealed the plan, the mastermind and when he will follow through with said plan." Tristan chuckled at Alistair, watching with a growing smirk on his face as the other soon came to realize his grave mistake. Because of his arrogance and prejudice, he had given everything away.

"N-no matter," Alistair tried to save face, "I will still kill you and join Lord Braun as we take back this country!"

"No, you will not," Tristan deadpanned. Alistair boiled at the man before him. He rose his sword and set out to cut him down.

It happened so fast that many of them hadn't seen it. Christine tared in bewilderment, many around her drew deep breaths, whispering "how did he do that!" amongst themselves. Fawkes' jaw dropped while Simon had a growing smile on his face.

In the blink of an eye, Tristan had dropped his sword, ducking as Alistair charged at him. He took the other man's wrist and squeezed it—thus making Alistair drop his own sword. Tristan had then landed such a hard punch on Alistair's face that it had sent him flying a few feet back; clutching his broken nose as his own blood spilled on the ground.

He lay in the snow, screaming profanities at the masked man who calmly went to pick the swords, pointing them both at Alistair.

"I told you the day I challenged you, Alistair: I would make you pay. I am a man of my word," Tristan growled, all hint of lighthearted amusement and sarcasm gone now. There was only anger and fury left in him. The beast emerged once more as he towered over the lesser man, baring his teeth as if waiting to sink them into the other's throat.

"W-wait, Hawthorne! I wasn't really going to kill you, I swear!" Alistair uttered; a foolish attempt at trying to save his own neck. It was loud enough for them all to hear. Tristan didn't care and prepared to push the sword through the other man's heart. Tears started forming in the corners of Alistair's eyes as they mixed with the blood that still emerged from his broken nose.

"Please! I yield, I yield! Mercy!" he begged, putting up his hands up. But Tristan had no mercy in mind.

But before Tristan could go any further a voice emerged from the crowd.

"Stop!"

Tristan recognized Christine's voice before seeing her. The undertone of relief at his victory did not go by unnoticed. Tristan's eyes never truly left Alistair's. But they did grow harsher as he saw relief in Alistair's eyes at the sound of Christine's voice.

She stepped out from the mass, all eyes on her. The morning air was cold and fresh, biting at her exposed skin. She waded through the deep snow, carefully nearing Tristan.

"That is enough, he yielded. Blood has been drawn long ago, my lord," she said softly. There was a look of disdain in her eyes as she looked at Alistair with a disgusted frown.

"He deserves no mercy, he is a traitor," Tristan said through gritted teeth. The remark made Christine's eyes widen, but that was not the main issue at hand. The public watched in awe as she neared both men. No one made a move to stop her; the thrill was too high to stop it now. Not even Fawkes intervened. It was bizarre to them; to see her move toward Tristan with so much trust in her step. To them, he seemed dangerous, as if he would lash out at any moment. But Christine never saw that.

"Then let the king's justice take care of him," she said as she placed a careful hand on his arm, urging him to lower the swords. The look in his eyes scared her, but it did not deter her.

"The same justice will cost Thomas Athar, an innocent man, to lose his life," Tristan said through gritted teeth. The tip of the sword now rested on Alistair's chest, slowly plunging into him and drawing blood as it cut through the fabric. Alistair begged him to listen to Christine, apologizing again and again. But Tristan would have none of it. He pushed Christine aside, determined to end the life of the man in front of him.

"Tristan, please!" the words made him stop cold in his tracks. The weapon had glided about a few millimeters into the flesh of Alistair who squirmed at the cold touch of the metal. Tristan swiftly removed the sword and stared at Christine.

It was the first time she had ever uttered his name, his Christian name.

The syllables sounded so right when they came from her mouth, rolling off her tongue like sweet honey. It felt right to Christine as well. She whispered it again, to herself, to feel the name form in her mouth.

"This duel was started because Lord Alistair insulted both me and you, is that not so?" she asked. He only nodded. "Then do not shed blood in my name, you are better than that."

They stood there in the early February morning. The cold pressed hard against them as the winds of winter picked up speed. The crowd watched again as Tristan slowly removed the sword from Alistair; as the hunger and lust for blood slowly died away in his eyes. Alistair could only breathe out in relief. Tristan stepped away, coming to stand next to Christine.

"Thank you," she said, replacing her hand on his arm, gratitude showing in her lavender eyes. Normally, the people of the court would think Tristan a fool for letting himself be so easily persuaded by Christine. But they did not in that instance.

They all could only stare dumbfounded as they realized that the masked man had won. First, they did not know what to do. Should they stay? Should they leave? But then some men started exchanging money and soon all bets were being taken care of. Tristan looked at them in disgust as the true colors of court showed. For them, this matter was only cheap entertainment. Well then, he would entertain them.

He walked toward Alistair again who was nursing the wound on his chest while lamenting his broken nose.

"Get up," Tristan growled. Alistair cowered the moment he saw the taller man nearing with weapon still in hand. The defeated man did as he bade without a second's thought for he knew he was in deep trouble. Yet, he'd rather choose to confront Lord Braun or even the king than Tristan at that moment. Alistair started getting up only to be stopped by Tristan again.

"Not all the way, stay on your knee." Tristan then asked Christine to come to his side. The public was once more paying attention to them, curious as to what was taking place. Christine went to stand beside Tristan, confused yet curious over what he was about to do. When she stood exactly in front of Alistair Tristan stepped aside.

"I won this duel for my honor and Miss Vega's. But I am not entirely satisfied," he began nonchalantly while strolling around them in slow steps. "You will bow your head and give your deepest apology to Miss Vega for what you have said about her. You will also ask for her mercy and only hope she forgives you. If she decides it, I will skin you like the pig you are. But I think her ladyship will be benevolent; as she showed us just a few minutes earlier," he explained.

Alistair mumbled something intangible to the both of them. His whole body started shivering as images of what Tristan might do to him sprung up in his mind. Alistair suddenly felt the tip of a sword against his throat and gulped.

"I did not hear you," came the menacing growl.

"I was wrong in calling you, Miss Vega, a wench and I can only ask for your forgiveness," Alistair said loud and clear. The words were so forced that they almost seemed like a shout. Christine gazed down at him from where she stood. He was kneeling in front of her in the deep snow, covered in it, mixing with the blood from his broken nose and wounded chest. He bared his neck for her as he did not even have the decency to look her in the eye. Christine knew well that Alistair was a man without honor. But she also knew that he was the court fool, and she had little to gain from seeing him killed. She did not want blood to be spilled for her, and she did not want Tristan to mercilessly kill.

She nodded, never voicing the acceptance of the apology. The duel was officially over; Tristan had emerged the champion, demonstrating skills in combat none of them had ever thought possible in him. He had toyed around with Alistair for something and the moment he had gained whatever information he sought, the tables had turned. In a few short minutes, Tristan had disarmed and defeated Alistair as if it was child's play. People began to understand then why the other man had defeated a whole army of trained soldiers.

"General!" Tristan said as he kept the sword pointed at Alistair. Fawkes came running over. A look of utter surprise on his features was soon replaced by a huge grin as he saw Alistair nursing his broken nose, kneeling on the ground—as he should.

"Well done!" He patted Tristan on the back and gave a nod to Christine. Tristan was as stoic as ever, not seeming satisfied at all that he had won.

"Have this man arrested, he has confessed to taking part in a bigger plot against the crown," he snapped as his sword pointed at Alistair. It was loud enough for those closest to hear. The other man sneered at them as Fawkes' eyebrows knitted together.

"Then your theory was right… "

"He has confessed, have you not, Alistair?" Tristan asked as his glaring eyes pierced into the other's very soul. Alistair felt a chill sweep over him, and it wasn't the cold February wind that managed to unsettle him so: it was the murderous look in Tristan's eyes.

"Y-yes, yes, I confess!" he squirmed, only wanting to get away from the masked man. Fawkes turned grim at the words. He waved for two pageboys to come over and arrest the lord, tying his hands behind his back.

"We must take him back to the palace immediately and inform this to His Majesty," Fawkes said as he, Tristan and Christine started making their way back to the red carpet. Tristan put away the sword and started donning his black doublet and jerkin.

"What is the meaning of this? Why are you keeping Lord Alistair? This was to be a duel, and duels do not end in one becoming the other's prisoner," Roland Launël said as he neared. The lord was backed by a group of men. He was one of Alistair's closer friends.

"This man has confessed to committing treason," Tristan said, pointing his sword at Launël. More men came up behind him now, their hands twitching for their own swords. Tristan grew tense. Here were more men who were loyal to Braun and Alistair, not James. His eyes drifted to Christine, he did not want her so close in case he had to fight his way out.

"At the point of a sword a man may say anything to save his life," Savoie said harshly, coming to stand next to Launël. Fawkes and Durun stepped up behind Tristan, their hands resting close to their weapons as well. The watching crowd now grew nervous at the sudden change. They had no idea what was taking place on that meadow. But, slowly, some men started stepping out on the field, sensing danger, walking up to stand next to Launël.

Tristan watched silently as around twenty men came to back Launël and Savoie. No doubt Braun had sent them to take care of him and his people in case Alistair failed. But, to his great surprise, Durun rose his hand, signaling some of his friends to come over. Confused lords went to their friends, thinking they were taking part in settling a squabble.

"We will leave here, with Lord Alistair," Fawkes said haughtily. Rajac, sensing the ever-growing tension walked up to Christine.

"Come, my lady, before this gets ugly," he whispered in her ear, coaxing her away so she didn't stand right in between the two groups.

"You will stay, general. We insist," Launël said through gritted teeth, unsheathing his sword. Some people in the crowd gasped. Those with a thinking mind realized it was best not to tarry and quickly started leaving. Some men loyal to Durun, Fawkes, and Rajac stayed, sensing a coming fight.

Before anything could take place, however, Joseph came riding in with impeccable timing. His horse looked about ready to drop as the young man quickly made his way through the dispersing throng. A look of alarm washed over his features as he captured the attention of all present.

"The palace is under attack!" he exclaimed, breathing heavily as he must've no doubt galloped back and forth with an impressive speed.

Tristan turned to face Launël and the rest of the men, only to find satisfied smirks.

It had begun.

* * *

 **Note: Thanks for reading this. We are around 2 chapters away from the end of this fic. I am very excited for the end! I have written most of the final chapters and will post the next one this comming week as soon as I have gone through it. Don't forget to R &R!**

 **Cheers!**


	20. Chapter 20

**A TALE OF ANGLOA**

 _Chapter 20_

* * *

 _February 15_ _th_ _– Morrow's Glade_

Christine never saw who charged first. The only thing indicating a fight was the sound of steel and shouts coming from both sides. Rajac kept to her side as he swiftly escorted her to the horses. The meadow saw the courtiers run away in a crazed panic. People fell and got trampled into the snow, horses grew nervous at the commotion; breaking free from their carriages or the pages who held them.

The peaceful morning broke into chaos as it witnessed a raging battle between the men of Launël and Hawthorne. Tristan, Durun, Fawkes and Joseph kept most at bay as more men joined their side. Soon, Durun took the front, fiercely cutting down his opponents as blood dripped from fresh wounds, tainting the white ground.

"Go!" he shouted as Savoie attacked once again, trying to stab him in the chest with his longsword. "Go to the palace, I will stay!" Durun urged. Tristan did not have to think twice and soon he, Fawkes, Joseph and a handful of other men ran for their horses.

Christine had never seen a battle before and she did not know how to react. So she stood there, watching the massacre take place, feeling a coldness expand inside her chest. She watched men cry out in the icy morning as they fell, the frozen steel ripping their soft flesh. It was violent, bloody and void of any humanity. It was kill or be killed.

As men tumbled to the ground, they cried out names of loved ones. Some, choking on their blood or trying to hold their flesh together, cried for their mothers in a desperate attempt to be saved by the women who had always stood by their sides. To Christine, such a sight was heartbreaking.

"My lady, we need to leave!" Rajac urged as he helped her on her horse.

"But what about Tristan!" she said, looking at the group of men slicing each other down. Her heart rose in her chest as she saw him, followed by a dozen men as they made their way to her.

"There he comes! Now, let's not linger!" Rajac mounted his horse. Tristan and the others had grabbed their own mounts. The masked man turned around, watching Durun fiercely taking down the other group of conspirators. They were slightly outnumbered, but he knew the other would succeed. He trusted in him.

"Where to, Lord Hawthorne?" shouted Fawkes as their horses cantered away. They rode between the running servants who tried their best in following their scared masters.

"My townhouse!" Tristan shouted back. "We need to regroup before we head to the palace."

With that they set for Wessport, leaving the bloody fight behind them. Christine held onto Monica Savoie's horse and closed her eyes.

Before this day, with Athar's imprisonment, she had thought it was all over, she thought they were safe. But it seemed that was never the case. Those few days had merely been the calm before the storm; a storm that revealed itself to be a raging tempest.

* * *

The townhouse stood almost empty as they arrived. The men in the group were grim as Tristan and Joseph had informed them of every detail on the road. Tristan quickly dismounted his horse and opened both doors wide, letting in the people that followed him.

The entrance was quiet and still. A small layer of dirt had already started to cover the floor, the dust particles quickly stirred as they entered.

"What is the meaning of this?" shouted a female voice in irritation as she rushed to the hall. When she saw the sight of battle-worn men and the bloodstains they carried on their clothes, her face changed from a quiet irritation to a pale white. Shock and confusion were apparent in her dull eyes. Mrs. Rochester never expected that this was how Tristan Hawthorne would return to his townhouse.

"My lord… what on earth…" she trailed off as her eyes found Christine, standing next to Rajac and Joseph.

"Get all the fighting men you can find in this house and bring them here, Mrs. Rochester," Tristan said without giving her a second look. She did as he bade immediately, without questioning him. Only the steady click of her heels could be heard as she rushed away from the group.

Tristan, however, was in a desperate situation. They were a dozen strong men up against an unknown number of fighters who had planned their attack for months, maybe years. He never let his fear show, he only worried about keeping Christine safe and away from the fight.

They walked into the abandoned hallway, now foreign to them. To Christine, it seemed a lifetime ago that she had stood there and watched as the palace servants came to take her things. It seemed a lifetime ago as she had escorted Antonia Coticelli up those wide stairs to be fitted for her gown.

So much had changed. She had changed.

Christine remembered when Tristan had chased her down the hall to her left. She remembered when she had arrived with him and how a wave of nostalgia had hit her.

Her eyes sought Tristan's. He was in a heated discussion with Rajac and Fawkes. They needed a plan and fast. Joseph had seen at least forty men take down the king's guard and he had no idea if James was captured or not.

"We cannot charge in blindly," Tristan said heatedly. "Or we will be slaughtered on the spot." His words made Christine shiver involuntarily. She didn't want to imagine him in such a position.

"But we cannot go through the main gates. They will be guarding those," Rajac said thoughtfully.

"Then where can we go?" asked Fawkes. Some of the other lords who had followed them; loyal to the king, had nothing to offer on their part. They lounged around, waiting for a command they could follow. It was Christine who realized they had overlooked one thing.

"What about the passageways?" she asked after a long silence as they had all desperately tried to come up with a plan. "They probably think we are being taken prisoners by Savoie and Alistair back at the glade. They will not yet be guarding the passageways." Her plan made Tristan grin in pride.

"But we do not know of any entrance outside of the palace," Joseph said. He had always heard of the secret passageways, but never actually seen them. Suddenly, one of the lords, Michael Callahan, got up. The young sand-haired man bore a charming and arrogant grin as he spoke with evident hope in his voice.

"I know of one passageway. It starts in the upper circle, by the east fountain and goes all the way to the chapel. It was an escape route for the king in case the castle ever got besieged. But now the lords and ladies of the palace use it for… other things…" Callahan turned red as he insinuated what those other things might be. But none of them cared for such frivolities. Gossip was not the first thing on their minds at that point.

"Do you know exactly where the passageway starts?" Tristan walked over to him, this was their only chance.

"I do, my lord Hawthorne," Callahan said, serious. He knew the great responsibility that lay on his shoulders. Only he could now lead them through the vast and complex networks of passageways that were hidden throughout the palace. "If we can get to the chapel, we can get to His Majesty's quarters through yet another passageway that is located in the chapel as well. We can get him out there until we join our forces and take down these traitors." Tristan placed a hand on Callahan's shoulder and gave him an approving nod. He looked around him, at all the weary faces that seemed to seek him out for guidance.

"In the basement, I keep some weapons we might use; flintlocks, swords and a variety of knives. Joseph will show you. Be back here quickly and then we leave," he said in an authoritative voice. The men spared no time and rushed after Joseph. He took them down to the basement where the old roman relics of the past guarded secrets lost in the folds of time.

Tristan turned to face Christine. When his eyes searched hers, he only found anger and fear in them.

When he neared her, reaching out for her, she turned from him, trying to hide her face. Her jaw was tensed and her eyes glazed over. The air in the room was weighed heavy. Dust particles that had been stirred from the dirtied floor were flying around, caught in the beams of light that entered from outside. The doors to the courtyard were still wide open and the naked sky greeted them; almost taunting them. The blue heavens smiled down on them–a beautiful day with a perfect sun, but it smiled down upon a turbulent capital.

At first, Tristan said nothing, for he had no words. There were sadness and anger in those lavender depths. She didn't want him to go. But as he placed a hand on her chin, guiding her face to meet his, he explained with his gaze that it would all be okay. Christine's harsh demeanor broke after a while as her lip quivered. She was scared; feeling a premonition of sorts. But she so pridefully tried to hide it.

Tristan had given enough for Angloa, so why did he have to give more now? She wanted them to go home and leave this blasted capital behind, to let it rot in its excessive corruption and greed. But she knew deep down that Tristan had to go to the king. She knew deep down that he had a cemented duty to his monarch and his country. Tristan belonged to Angloa before he belonged to her. At least, that was what Christine thought. In the end, there was nothing she could say or do that would change his mind. In the end, like it or not, she had to accept the cards fate had dealt them.

Each moment passed slowly. Too slow at first. But after a while, she appreciated how time seemed to have stopped for them. It was allowing her to give an encouraging goodbye. It made her realize that anger would lead nowhere, she would have to ignore her emotions this time and be encouraging.

After a while, Christine stepped in closer, taking in his scent and his warmth. She was reminded of that early morning, of those hours before dawn, when they sat in each other's arms, staring at the fires as they awaited the duel. Why did it feel like it was all repeating itself?

"Promise you will return to me," she said after a while. Her voice was strained but her anger washed away. She understood, at last; she chose to understand. She didn't want to part ways being angry with him.

He had seen the inner conflict in her face, in her eyes. He had watched silently as she dealt with it herself. Tristan didn't want to interfere where he wasn't needed. He knew Christine was proud—deep down she was probably prouder than he. He knew she was strong and didn't need him comforting her. But he needed to at least make sure that they would part ways without qualms.

"I will always return to you," he murmured against her ear while brushing her soft golden locks away from her face. Her heart grew and her body shook as it slowly found its way to his as it molded against his. Both of them made it hard to part, only if it was for a little while.

He placed his arms around her and she let herself be embraced by him. Christine rested her head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, to his steady breathing. She wished desperately that they could stay that way forever. None of them wanted to recognize out loud the feelings that coursed through their minds; like a piece of string hastily gathered together.

Tristan shifted his gaze so that he could get one last, closer look at those sweet eyes of hers. Christine stared up at his masked face, seeing his own blue depths; oceans that swayed calmly after a storm. It seemed the mask was forgotten as her eyes saw more than a mere piece of leather that covered his face. It was as if that piece of garment only served to enhance every particle of his being. The mask allowed her to gaze straight into his soul and see him for who he truly was.

Just like earlier that morning, she had never noticed at first how close they were. Both of them appreciated how natural it was to be so close to the other. But this time they wanted more. They both needed more. There was a push and pull so evident in their relationship; two steps forward, one step back.

She felt his heart speed up with her own as well as her breaths growing faster. Christine never knew how it happened. She never knew who took the first step. Her mind spun as the fresh scent of pine and leather washed over her. The nerves in her skin seemed to be more sensitive, more receptive. She felt it before she ever saw it.

Tristan was taken by the moment as well. He couldn't be sure either who had leaned in first. Maybe they both had, simultaneously. Her breath was sweet and warm against his lips as her own softly pressed against his. For a moment, he was so surprised by the action that he never knew how to react. That brief second felt like an eternity; her soft, plump lips brushing hesitantly against his own, never really knowing what to do. It was gentle and innocent as she kissed him.

It was the first time he felt her skin against his own. The sensation sent a jolt through them both as they wanted more. After that first, tender instance, he smiled against her mouth and took her in his arms, deepening their kiss. He heard her breath catch in her throat as she willingly opened her mouth against his. Her arms circled around his neck while his own gripped her tightly around her waist. She let herself be completely overtaken by feelings and sensations she had fought so hard against the last few months. It felt right to kiss Tristan, it felt right to be kissed by Tristan. She never imagined that his touch; his bare skin on her own would send her mind spinning so rapidly. Something deep and primitive stirred in her that she had never felt before. It was a yearning like nothing else. Christine felt the kiss grow wilder, more passionate and her senses were overwhelmed. She had no idea what was really happening, and she loved every second of it.

She never knew who broke the kiss first, only that his mouth smiled against hers; his forehead pressed against hers as he let his hands glide through her loose tresses. Meanwhile, she tried to control her rapid breath, her fingers playing with the ties of his mask. Tristan never seemed bothered by it.

"And you expect me to leave after that?" he murmured softly against her lips sending a shiver rocking her body.

"I expect you to return more willingly to me after that," she whispered, crooning her neck to stare into his eyes. "And to be careful." She never knew the effect she had on him, of that Tristan was sure. But he knew one thing, he would move seas and mountains only so he could return more quickly to her.

They weren't aware of how some of the men had returned from the cellar and kept to the side, not wanting to interrupt such a moment. Simon Rajac looked at the couple and felt his jaw grow tense. Amanda Rajac was in that castle, in the midst of the battlefield. And he wanted nothing more than to get her to safety. Fawkes smiled knowingly, knowing well how it felt to part from a loved one before an important fight. But they had little time to spare and made their presence known.

Christine grew shy at the presence of the other men and promptly stepped aside. She watched a group of men near. Mrs. Rochester had returned with some footmen who had been informed of what was happening. Two stable-boys and the stable-master joined in as well. They barely made up a force of twenty men. But at least it was something.

"We will get him back to you unharmed, my lady. I give you my word of honor," said Fawkes as he gave her a small bow. She nodded, watching in quiet despair as the men walked out of the manse with heavy steps. Their feet took them to their horses, the stable-master and pageboys had gotten some horses for themselves and the footmen as well. They carried each a variety of weapons, set out to kill and conquer. They would take back the palace at any cost; for such was their loyalty.

"Look after her for me while I'm gone," Tristan said to Mrs. Rochester as she neared them. The old woman's lips thinned, her skin still white as a ghost's. She could only nod, scared out of her wits, wanting nothing more than to get away from that blasted capital. But she took one look at Christine and sighed. She owed her ladyship loyalty as her servant, and Mrs. Rochester would do what she could to keep her safe.

"I will, my lord," she said in low tones. That was all the seasoned general needed as he reached for his horse.

Tristan mounted Cid, ignoring Fawkes and his words, trying to lighten the situation. Tristan could only turn to face Christine, watching her stand in that grand door-opening next to Mrs. Rochester. The winds stirred the snow from the ground, the white flakes swirled around her form; beams of light hit her delicate features. Her golden locks danced in the wind, her lips were slightly swollen from their kiss and her eyes were large and glazed. She had her jaw squared and her hands gripping her skirts tightly. She looked like an apparition to him and he forgot about his worries. Tristan wanted to return to her, and he wanted to be with her. Feelings he had ignored and tried to escape for so many months started blooming in the depths of his heart. And he accepted them. When he returned, he would make Christine _his_ and he would give the world to her.

Tristan never felt Cid walk away from that picture, from that image that would ingrain itself into his memory forever. He never heard the joyful conversation Fawkes had with Joseph as he watched the young blonde raise her hand, waving him goodbye—the winds picking up her skirts and swirling them around her legs.

* * *

The sun shone on a desolate plaza, a naked tree stood in its center with dunes of snow around its foot. The tree would always stand naked, no leaves would grace its crown. It had been dead for at least half a century, but it would not be taken down, by request of the king and his ancestors.

It was barely mid-morning and yet no merchants nor inhabitants of the city had graced the streets of the upper circle. All kept to their houses, peeking out the windows as they spoke in hushed voices. Those who had been at Morrow's Glade had run to their townhouses and barricaded the doors, waiting out the siege of the palace in safety. It was evident that they cared little for what happened to their monarch. Women sat in their parlors, gossiping while paranoia overtook. The men had gathered their footmen and put them to guard the various entrances of their houses.

It was therefore that the clatter of hooves managed to stir the households encircling the picturesque square. They flocked to the windows, pushing to see who had dared venture out in such a critical hour.

They were not surprised when they saw none other than Tristan Hawthorne and Anthony Fawkes leading a group of men to the plaza, armed to the teeth, looking ready to kill anyone who came in their way.

Tristan could not keep his thoughts away from Christine and the way her lips had felt and tasted. She had kissed him; he had kissed her. Despite the perilous situation, his heart was soaring. When this day was over, he knew they could finally get to know one another.

Callahan took them to the small plaza and dismounted his amber steed. The man proceeded to go to the old tree and look around the trunk until he found what he was searching for: a switch. To their surprise, the switch released a mechanism that opened a thin passage in the wide trunk of the naked tree.

"This way, it takes us underground, and the path is quite long," Callahan urged as the other lords and servants followed. Tristan glanced around. Leaving their horses out in the open would surely call attention.

"Joseph, take the horses aside, hide them in some alley. It will save us a few minutes if Savoie and Alistair happen to come by this square," he said as he pointed to a shadowed alleyway where their horses could be tied to the end of the house. The young man started taking the horses by groups of four, helped by a servant as the rest started entering the passageway.

Once Joseph and the footman were finished they hastily entered, feeling the butterflies in their stomachs and the premonition of a coming fight stir nausea. Joseph could not help but shake. He had never partaken in such a fight. It had always been on the battlefield, the moment before striking the other army. But he always knew exactly where it was and when it would strike. Now he was about to confront an enemy of unknown numbers and an unknown place. He had seen the men that had entered the palace; robust, merciless brutes who looked like they fought daily for a living; like they thrived on killing others. They were nothing like the men that had accompanied Tristan and Fawkes. He tried to hide his nervous state when a hand squeezed his upper arm.

"The thrill of the fight has gotten to you too, eh my lad?" chuckled Fawkes as he walked behind him, slightly hunched over in the low stone passage. Joseph could only nod, never finding his voice.

They moved slowly, the roof low and iced over; no doubt it would be dripping with water during the warmer months. There was only one torch—held by Callahan at the front. The twelve men followed him meticulously in silence as he led them through the tight passageways and complex network of paths. Rats and other vermin jumped aside as their heavy footsteps struggled to find secure footing between the many roots and upturned stones that covered the ground. But, as they advanced, the ground became more even, the roof higher and the space wider. After what seemed like an eternity, it felt like they were walking in a normal corridor. The sense of claustrophobia was long gone and now they strained their ears to hear any signs of a confrontation.

The group soon reached the end of the passage. Callahan put up a hand to let them come to a stop, but he never made a move to open the door and exit the cold and murky corridor. Tristan squeezed past the men and moved to the front.

"Why are we not getting out of this blasted place?" he growled as his eyes stared harshly at Callahan, suspicions arising every second the man didn't answer. Callahan, on the other hand, had been staring out a small hole, allowing a view of the east end of the chapel. He stepped aside to let Tristan see what he had witnessed. Tristan hunched forward and looked through the hole carved into the stone. His whole body tensed as he saw a group of probably ten men—maybe more—guard that part of the chapel.

"They have foreseen our actions," Callahan muttered as his jaw tensed. His black eyes grew harsh as he realized that there was nothing they could do to get to the king. But Tristan didn't seem as dismayed by what he saw.

"Where is the other passage we need to get to?" he asked as he counted the men; a total of thirteen armed men.

"Do you see over there, by the confessionary? There is a panel in the back of the column that opens one of the larger portraits on the wall behind it; it'll take you straight to the king's personal quarters," Callahan explained. Tristan's eyes drifted to the confessionary. It wasn't too far away. The chapel was far enough from the main building that a confrontation would most likely not be heard.

"If they expected us," he began, "they would have placed more men here. I am certain Lord Braun is aware of this passageway, and therefore he placed these men here. But I do not think he foresaw that we would use it." Tristan straightened and turned around to stare at the faces of the men that had gathered close to him.

"We have the advantage: the element of surprise. If we use the pistols, we will attract attention. But if we use the throwing knives and arrows instead we can silently take out at least half of them," he said as he eyed their choice of weapons. At least two of the lords had carried with them bows and arrows. Another three had carried throwing knives as well as bigger knives.

"Do you know how to use those?" Tristan asked as he pointed at the weapons. He received some cocky grins as one of the men took a knife and gracefully played with it in his hand. The sharp metal danced around in his hand as the man expertly handled it. The others, carrying the arrows gave a small smile and a mere nod.

The rest of the men silently got their own weapons ready. Most carried swords. Some footmen had robust axes while the stable-master bore the largest hammer any of them had ever seen. It might have looked comedic if the situation were not so dire. The stable-master, Ben, sported a proud, dark-blond beard and wild unkempt hair. His dark eyes were eager for a fight, the hammer was gripped tightly in both his hand. Tristan was reminded of someone of some forgotten God that had once ruled the north.

"We get out silently on my command. You men, with the bow and you with the throwing knives, you take the front. When you are out of weapons head directly for the other passage with Callahan and open it. The rest of us will keep up a barrier. Once we see that the passage is open then we get in quickly. We cannot afford to try to kill them all. Other posted guards may happen upon us and we'll be stuck fighting in this chapel forever." He looked around the serious and gloomy faces. "Those who stay behind… stay behind," he said coldly. It was cruel but they all understand why he said it. They could not return for a fallen friend and doom their mission. "That includes me as well. If I fall, leave me," Tristan said, detached. He hoped such a thing would not happen. But, while he had been sure of his win earlier that morning over Alistair, he was not certain now what was to come.

"But how are we supposed to get the king away from here safely if the passage we use is blocked?" Fawkes said pensively. He had a point. He had said something Tristan had not thought about.

"Are there other ways out of the king's apartments?" Tristan turned to Callahan.

"The passage we're taking splits in two. I only know of the one leading from the chapel to the king's quarters. But I have no idea where the other one goes to," he said, uncertainty clear in his being as he twisted uncomfortably. None of them wanted to get stuck with the monarch with an army at their doorstep. They needed a safe way out.

"Then we agree. We grab the king and head for the other hidden passage," Fawkes was serious as he spoke. His longsword was sharp in his gloved hand, the lust for battle clear in his endless orbs. The old general felt twenty years younger.

"On my signal," whispered Tristan in anticipation as the tension rose. The men felt their muscles twitch at the coming fight, knowing well that some would fall. Tristan peered out the small hole, waiting for some of the guards to disperse. He was already in a fighting stance, two longer knives in each of his hands. Joseph had taken those for him in a rush. They were as good a weapon as any other.

He slowly pushed against the door as it opened, watching the guards walk away. Only six stood there, chatting in merry tunes, not too preoccupied with keeping a lookout.

It was time.

Tristan was followed by Joseph, Callahan, the knife wielders and the bowmen. They glided like ghosts in the still chapel. Each sound any of them made sent their hearts beating wildly. They did not wish to get found out yet.

Tristan gripped his knives and crouched near the wall, the six men accompanying him did the same. Behind them, the other men had slowly started following them. They glided as quietly as they could along the walls, stopping instantly when they saw a guard move in their direction.

Tristan motioned for the bowmen. The three of them put sharpened arrows on their strings and took aim. It felt like an eternity, a pregnant silence expanded as they all knew what would follow once those arrows were released. Tristan kept playing with the knives in his hands, gripping them tightly. One of the men inhaled slowly and Tristan knew that he would release his arrow on the next exhale.

It was a very long inhale. The crouching bowman then slowly let the breath accumulated in his lungs go and the arrow sailed away elegantly with a silent whoosh.

The guard was dead before he hit the ground. And before any of the other men could react, a knifeman threw two knives through the air. One collided with a shorter guard in the throat, the action killing him slowly and agonizingly. The other caught a man in the chest. But the piece of metal did not manage to imbed itself far enough to be lethal.

Tristan rose his hand and signaled the others to strike. The bowmen sent their arrows flying, taking down a few more guards. The other injured two more. It was then that their position was discovered.

Tristan rose together with Joseph and readied for close combat. He motioned for Callahan to run for the other passageway and open it as discreetly as he could.

More men in their group soon joined them as the rest of the guards finally noticed their fallen comrades.

"We are under attack!" one of them shouted. They unsheathed their weapons and charged blindly into the fray, eager for a fight. Tristan, Joseph, and some others did well in keeping the ruthless and bloodthirsty men at bay. Alas, one in Tristan's group was suddenly pierced, a painful moan escaped the young lord as he fell to the ground, clutching his thigh.

Suddenly, more men appeared around the corner and Tristan then realized that they were outnumbered.

"Joseph, Timothy, take Lord Peter and get him into the passageway," Tristan commanded. He would hold the men off with the remaining group as long as he could. Callahan, Fawkes and the rest were awaiting them ill at ease in the passage.

Joseph never questioned Tristan openly. But the look in his eyes spoke of an unwillingness to leave the masked man in such an unfavorable position. He and Timothy took the wounded Peter in their arms and ran for the passageway. Some men followed but Tristan figured Fawkes would slice them dead before they stepped foot in the passage.

Instead, Tristan focused on holding the spilling horde of brutes at bay as best as he could. He realized, however, that there were too many when someone got close enough and managed to touch his arm with their sword. The wound was nothing, for he hardly felt it. But it alarmed him of how outnumbered they were. He looked around his group. Five men were fighting ferociously at his side. Five men that he'd need when they arrived at James' side.

"Retreat!" he finally shouted, gritting his teeth as the other men realized that they were winning. Those at his side never hesitated and bolted for the passage. Tristan was last, fighting like he'd never fought before. He went into a frenzy and soon none dared to step close to him as it was clear that he would kill anyone that was within his range. Tristan was backing away slowly as more than thirty men stood tense, not wanting to attack him, in fear of their lives.

He turned and ran as fast as his legs could carry him. It made him more vulnerable, for it bared his back. Yet, Tristan's legs were fast and strong and in one breath he had jumped into the passage just as Callahan closed it behind him, sealing it.

When the other men rounded the corner they stared at the wall next to the confessional in disbelief. They searched inside the confessional and around it, scratching their heads as there was no trace of the masked man and his band of fighters. Soon whispers that he must've been an apparition circulated. The fierce warriors grew pale. There was no other explanation. How else could Tristan and all those men just have disappeared? No one had seen where they had gone to in the heat of the fight.

"I think we are safe for now," whispered Callahan as he pushed away from the peeking hole. "But I am sure they will inform their superiors that we are in the palace now." Callahan turned grim.

Tristan got up from the floor as he had caught his breath. "Let us not think of that. We need to get to the king," he said slowly, looking around the dimly lit place.

The passage was like a regular corridor, only there was less light, it was more cold and humid and it was smaller, much smaller. It was wide enough for two men to walk side by side. But the roof was very low. He had to hunch slightly so the top of his head wouldn't hit the low roof. Several others had to do the same.

"How is Lord Peter?" Tristan asked, looking around to find the wounded man. He saw a pale Peter sitting on the ground, clutching his wounded leg as blood spilled from it.

"The blood doesn't flow as fast now, Lord Hawthorne, but I am afraid I am not fit to continue fighting. I am sorry." There was a tone of defeat in Peter's voice as he cast his brown eyes to the ground, disappointed with himself.

"Nonsense, Peter!" explained Fawkes. "You wait here and take care of that leg of yours. That is what is most important for now," Fawkes said, smiling faintly, never showing his concern at how much blood Peter had lost. Peter let his head rest against the wall, a faint smile crept up on his face.

"Aye, I will rest here and wait for the joyous news of your victory over Braun," he murmured. He grew paler by the minute.

"My lords," another voice broke the silence as they prepared to part. Timothy, the one who had carried Peter to the passageway stepped forth. He bore a look of guilt on his face as he spoke the next words. "Although my deepest wish is to go with you, may I stay here and look after Lord Peter until your return with His Majesty?"

There was no doubt in Fawkes' voice as he spoke. He knew of the kinship between Timothy and Peter. "Of course, Tim," he nodded.

"We will come back for you, Peter. I promise," Tristan vowed in low tones. "You as well, Lord Timothy." He just hoped that when they did come back, they would find themselves with a living and breathing man and not a corpse. Peter never responded and simply nodded. The wounded man could not hide the weight taken off his shoulders. At least he would not be alone.

"Go," he said finally, as Tim sat down beside his friend, draping his cape over his shivering body. There was nothing else to be said and so, Callahan took the front, once more leading them through dark and ominous hallways. Tristan stared back as he saw Peter, sitting in the dim light of the peeking hole. His head bobbed up and down as he was no doubt fighting to stay awake.

* * *

Loud bangs could be heard on the heavy wooden door leading to the royal chambers. James had been taken to his own apartments. Queen Tabitha had been taken to a secluded room in his personal chamber, the door locked for her safety. A few loyal ladies-in-waiting had stayed as the first men had invaded the palace. The rest had, as if knowing, run in a frenzy, wanting to get away as fast as possible.

James stood in the grand parlor. He'd had his men barricade the door with the furniture in the room. Various settees, couches, chairs and even heavy wardrobes had been dragged there, placed in front of the door; the last shield against the army that awaited.

James had been in the throne room when the head of his king's guard, Jeremiah Wester, clad in his shining armor, came running, announcing that the palace was under attack. James had not believed it at first. He was still struck with grief and anger. He had not wanted to see anyone, not even Tristan a few hours earlier. Anything that reminded the monarch of Athar was quickly disregarded by him. But when the unmistakable shouts of battle were heard from the entrance and hallway, he could no longer ignore it. The king had rushed with the king's guard to safety, trying to get a hold of his generals and armies. The monarch realized that more than half of court was away to watch the duel between Tristan Hawthorne and Matthew Alistair

"Robert!" he commanded, the loyal chamberlain of the Wessport palace came to his side. The nervous state of the poor chamberlain did not go by unnoticed. King's guards and servants that had come with him, together with some lords that had stayed behind, were all jittery. The loud banging against the oak doors seemed to grow in sound and force as the time went by.

"Yes, Sire," Robert said, bowing as he came to stand next to his king. James was looking out the window in deep thought. He looked at the courtyard, now infested with more soldiers, soldiers that were not loyal to him. What irritated him most, was that he would never know all the men behind this coup. For James was certain that whoever barged in through that door would not leave him alive.

Killing a king was not a light thing, many knew this. Once the crown had been placed upon the subject's head, he was the head of his country. Killing that representant was, in a sense, weakening the power the crown presented. No one would dare go against what the crown stood for, nor what the king was. Yet, James suspected that these people who attacked him had no care for the sacred symbol he and his crown represented. Alas, there was one thing he was sure of. He would not go down easily. He would not cower before the swords of lesser men, of backstabbers and blackguards.

"Go through these apartments, search every room and return with any weapon you can find," he said sternly.

"You mean to fight, Sire?"

"Of course I mean to fight. What kind of question is that?" James snapped as he stared down at Robert.

"Nothing, Sire, just that maybe you yourself should go join Her Majesty and let us–"

"I will not be known as the king who cowered with the women while he let others fight for him. If these men mean to kill me, then let it be with a sword in my hand," James growled as his eyes burned with an intense fire. Robert did not talk back. He was overtaken by awe. James displayed his true Fell roots in that moment. A shiver passed through the older lords in the room, for it was like Philip Fell was in the room with them once more: alive in James.

Robert obeyed, and he went with some willing soldiers and lords to raid the rooms for anything of use.

James knew of the passageways in his rooms, passageways he could have used to escape this disaster long ago. But when they had tried the main one, just outside of his chamber, they had found it lodged from the inside. Someone familiar with his apartments, familiar with these passageways and aware of the coup had purposely gone locking the passages from the inside so that he might not escape when the time came. It irritated the king greatly, for this meant that someone in his inner circle, with access to this knowledge, had betrayed him. James knew Athar alone could not be behind this. It had to be someone else, more people of the court with powerful positions.

The banging stopped abruptly. It caused the tense people in the room to stare at that door, praying it hadn't broken. But the strong oak was intact, the metal frame had yet to bend and there was still no splitting of the wood.

"Your Majesty!" came a mocking voice. James grew cold as he recognized it, his jaw was tensed and his lips thin as a darkness stirred in him.

"Braun," he growled.

"Indeed." He had never heard such a vile and mocking tone in Braun's voice before. It was almost like the lord savored a victory he had yet to win. The mask of the lord was off, it seemed. For he finally showed his true colors.

"I have stopped my men, for I wish to bargain," Braun said in a softer voice. It was as if he tried to lull the king into a sense of false security.

"There is nothing we can bargain over."

"You care that little for your life? What about the life of your wife? Or the people in there with you?"

Silence.

"I suspect you care nothing for them then. You always were too proud, James." Braun sounded a bit disgusted.

"It seems you have not thought about the consequences of what it means to kill a king," James retorted. "Your plan was elaborate, to lure people away with a duel. Tell me, what has happened to Lord Fawkes, Lord Hawthorne?" James was afraid that even they were in on it. What if Tristan Hawthorne had only acted in pretense against Alistair that day in the assembly room? The king could bear no such thoughts and hid his emotions skillfully. As he had learned to do since childhood.

"Probably dead, if Alistair had his way. However, I would have liked to unmask Hawthorne myself. What a sight that would have been—to see that peasant's ravaged face and delight in the screams of the courtiers as they saw him for what he truly was: a monster." Those were words that made James realize the personal contempt Braun held toward Tristan. He was surprised. Braun had never shown any personal distaste for the masked man.

But alas, it was true. The proud lord was sick and done with what court was becoming. He wanted the old days back, the days of when lords were more powerful. When common riffraff could not enter society so easily. He wanted the days when the rank between them all was distinguishable. Lord Braun came from a very old and proud family as old as the Fell family. But that all seemed forgotten.

"I would sooner make a deal with the devil than with you," growled James as he realized there was no mercy in Braun. Never had he known he'd hosted such a man at his court. Only a dry laugh could be heard from the other side and then the loud banging started once more.

The others in the room had grown paler now. They knew of their doom. But none had yet dropped their arms and surrendered.

"Where is that damn Robert!" exclaimed James to himself after ten minutes of impatient waiting had passed. The door had started to give now, and the king's guard went to the front, their swords up, ready to impale the first who barged in.

"Being useful," came a very dark voice. It was another voice James recognized. His eyes lit up with complete surprise as he turned around.

There, in the opening to the spacious parlor, he found Tristan Hawthorne, Anthony Fawkes and at least twenty men flooding into the room. They were armed, and some had blood splattered on their doublets. Robert stood next to Tristan, a wry smile spreading on his lips as he realized that there might still be hope for them.

But before the king could say anything else they all heard the oak doors crack loudly with a final bang.

* * *

 **One chapter left.**


	21. Chapter 21

**A TALE OF ANGLOA**

 _Chapter 21_

* * *

 _February 15th - Wessport_

The men welled in like water through a small crack in the hull of a ship. The king's guard held their swords high and served as the first shield against the invaders. The hole in the door was small enough so that only one man could come in at a time. It served to their advantage. While three men had managed to enter, they soon regretted their decision to head in first. One was met with an arrow in the eye, falling dead to the ground instantly. The other was soon cut down by a guard, screaming in pain as the sword sliced through him, ripping up his tender flesh. The wounded was barely a man yet—the boy clutched his abdomen as his lifeblood spilled out of him, staining the elegant Persian carpet in the room.

While the king's guard kept the breach in check, the rest of them decided that it was better to leave with the king.

"Your Majesty, there is a safe passage down to the chapel. From there we can get you safely out of the palace until this whole situation calms down," Fawkes urged with drawn sword.

James stared at his general, insulted as he spoke. "I will not flee like a coward with traitors on my doorstep. I will stay. You may, however, escort my wife and her ladies-in-waiting," he roared, reaching for his own sword, ready to strike.

No one dared question the king, and they all took on Braun's men as they welled in. Callahan was tasked with escorting Queen Tabitha and her ladies down the passage followed by some servants and some of Tristan's footmen. The stable-master was fighting as courageous as ever. He swung his hammer left and right, screaming as adrenaline rushed through his system. Fawkes laughed merrily as he easily took down one man after another. The eyes Ben and the proud general met, and they grinned at each other. It was clear to him that Fawkes was enjoying being in battle once more.

It was true, the aging general felt like a young man once more when the thrill of the fight awoke every living cell in his body. Ben, however, was scared senseless. They were at one point surrounded by more than five men. Braun's men soon changed tactics, they understood that it was better to fight fewer of the king's men at a time. They had already taken down some of the king's guard and lords that way.

"It seems a dire situation, my friend," Fawkes smiled as he readied his sword when two men attacked him at the same time. He instantly killed one with the mere thrust of the weapon. The other he landed a hard punch right in between the man's legs.

"Aye," came the strangled reply from Ben who swung his hammer through the air, making a whooshing sound. It imbedded itself in the head of his attacker, sending parts of his cracked scull and brains everywhere as he fell to the ground. Braun's men took a step back, rather not facing the fearsome man.

"Wonderful! How are you faring otherwise?" Fawkes asked in casual conversation as he took down yet another man. He released a hearty chuckle and his attackers thought he must surely be mad to be in such a jolly mood during such a perilous situation.

"I'm scared shitless, m'lord," came the honest reply as Ben fended off yet another attacker. It evoked a roaring laugh in Fawkes as heads turned to see what might cause such a reaction at such a time.

"Then know that if you fall, you will fall with honor," he replied.

Tristan could not hide an amused grin as he saw the strange duo take on most of the men that charged into the fray. The corpses and wounded men were soon piling up, and it made fighting harder. James was stubborn, and he would not see reason. Tristan was sure that even more were on the other side. They were still trying to take down the rest of the door. Most who had started removing the furniture that blocked it had been struck down by the bowmen or knife-wielders. It would work for now until the supply of knives and bows ended.

"Sire, although I understand your need to prove yourself, I would still advise we retreat for now. We cannot keep this up for long," Tristan growled as he easily took down two more men, the blood splattered across his mask. Ruby red droplets ran down the leather face and neck. It stained his black doublet and while shirt. Tristan was able to usher them aside so that he and the king might decide on the best course of action.

"If we lose this fight, Hawthorne, it will mean that I will have to leave Wessport. Conspirators like Braun and Athar will take over the capital and place someone else—or God forbid—themselves, on the throne. It will mean a bloody civil war. The people will suffer for it and I could not bear that."

The young monarch seemed to have aged at least two decades overnight. Tristan stared into the endless depths of the king's eyes and understood completely what he implied. Better they die here, only a few, than endless armies of soldiers, innocent bystanders, and villagers that would be in the middle of the fight. Angloa had just recovered from one war, she could not suffer another one.

They had to accept that they might be overtaken by Braun and his followers. They had to accept that they had to sacrifice themselves.

"You will be the last heir of your line," Tristan pointed out. It was something James had already thought much about. Not just during that moment, he knew such a moment might soon befall them either way. His wife was barren, unable to bear any children. James had not managed to persuade the pope for an annulment of their matrimony, for it had indeed been consummated and they were not related: both reasons for an annulment. He was not allowed to divorce, it was against the Catholic Church to do so.

"I know," came the terse reply. It brought great sorrow to James. Something that hurt him so deep inside, to think that everything his ancestors had fought for would end with him. He felt a heavy hand on his shoulder as it squeezed his.

"Only a great man would sacrifice so much for his people, Your Majesty," Tristan said truthfully. There was a hint of admiration in his voice. "The rest of us can only aspire to do as much."

"Careful, Hawthorne. I'm not dead yet," James teased as he raised his sword. He charged again against the men in the room, finding new strength he never knew he had. It was as if their conversation had somehow kindled new will in him. James would not retreat, but he would not hand over his crown as willingly either.

Tristan followed him suit, for he would do all in his might to keep his king alive. But there was something more that pushed him to fight. He fought to see Christine again. They had parted ways in a loving manner and he knew that there was hope for them in the future.

They heard the door weighed heavy as it cracked under the pressure the men on the other side were putting on it. With another loud boom, it gave way yet again. The opening was bigger, allowing more men could spill in. Tristan and the others stared in defeat and felt their limbs tired at the oncoming wall of screaming fighters. Yet, they all raised their swords, ready to take them down.

Many on the king's side had fallen—at least half. They were thirty against hundreds who tried to squeeze into the parlor. In the midst of the traitors, they saw Braun. He wielded a thinner longsword and a knife, fixated on only one man: Tristan.

Tristan rapidly pushed away those he was fighting against as Joseph took care of those. Braun wanted a one-on-one fight with the masked count. Tristan plied a sword away from one of the fallen, so he would be more equally matched with Braun.

Their weapons clashed instantly, and the force sent them both flying back. For each moment that passed as they fought, they realized that they were both equal in force. Braun was an excellent fighter with excellent form and he caught Tristan off guard many times. As Tristan felt the sweat pearl down his forehead, he grew wary. There was no option of defeat here and he continued blocking the attacks Braun sent flying his way.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the king's guard form a protective circle around James. More and more men poured in, trying to capture the king.

"It is so surreal, isn't it? The sense you get before you lose," came Braun's voice as he clashed blades with Tristan. They both locked swords, staring the other down. Tristan ignored his words as he breathed heavily. He would not beg—like he was sure Braun wanted.

"I must confess, I never once suspected you. You played your cards well, Lord Braun."

"I play this game better than you will ever comprehend, Hawthorne," Braun said, leaving out Tristan's title. The masked man felt his arms shiver as his muscles were about ready to give out after the sustained fight.

"If you kill the king, the next person you put on the throne will be seen as a usurper," Tristan retorted. The words sparked a reaction in Braun.

"Do you really think the people will accept James after they find out what his father did?" Braun mocked. "We have enough proof to show King Philip was poisoned the last few weeks of his life until he died from it."

Tristan squared his jawline as he knew what Braun spoke was the truth. He did not try to appeal to the other's humanity. Braun couldn't care less if a civil war started. He couldn't care less for the people for the kingdom. Braun only cared for himself and the riches and powers this coup would bring him.

"So you do this out of a sense of duty to the true king then, and his true heir?" Tristan asked in disbelief. He struggled to utter the words as he fought on, blocking more than he attacked now. This was not at all like when he fought against Alistair. This time he was not sure he would win. Braun only laughed.

"If that is what you believe then let it be so. But in truth, I wanted to lead this attack because I knew deep down that Alistair—the fool—would fail, as he does in everything else," Braun spoke with passionate conviction.

"You see, Hawthorne, while Alistair expressed his contempt and distaste for you openly I kept such feelings to myself. My hatred for you grows much deeper than you can ever begin to understand. My disdain for you knows no boundaries. I will so love when I see your blood be yet another stain on this carpet and when I see your cold lifeless eyes stare back at mine as I unmask you. How I will love to chop off that proud head of yours and parade it through the streets, alongside the king. How I will love when the people you once protected scorn at your unmasked face, how the public will be ready to believe any ill against you, just because of how foul you look."

Tristan had never seen such deep hatred in anyone. The look in Braun's eyes made him turn cold as he understood how much the man truly loathed him. The cruel grin grew as he saw Tristan tense. Braun knocked the sword out of his hands in a complicated maneuver. He dug his thin knife into Tristan's left shoulder. But the masked man firmly bit back the scream, not willing to give Braun the satisfaction of hearing his pain. This only served to aggravate Braun further as he twisted the knife around in the wound, enjoying every second of the agony that flashed across the deep blue eyes. Tristan managed to push Braun away, and he dug out the small knife, the blood spilling from the wound. He had no idea where this hatred came from.

"I did not know that my mere presence at court could evoke such hatred, Braun," Tristan said through gritted teeth as he kept the pain down. But the truth was that his vision started failing him as his head grew light. He had to rest against the wall behind him for support and he sighed. He was a man of his word, always having kept what he promised. Yet, it seemed that this would be the one time he would break his word. It hurt him especially because he would be breaking his word against Christine.

He felt the steel tip of the sword push against his throat and he waited for the slash of the sword.

"Alistair voiced what many of us feel. A peasant doesn't belong at court, and a deformed one less. You defile everything we stand for and you disgust me. But that is not the main reason for my hatred," Braun spat as anger rose in his otherwise cold and calculating eyes. It seemed Braun had some accounts to settle before he slashed Tristan's throat open.

Around them the fight waged on, men on both sides falling. The circle of king's guards around James grew smaller and smaller as they fell, one by one. At one point, Tristan's eyes met James, and they both knew it to be over. They both accepted their fates as they silently nodded. No words were needed. While James made peace with his situation, accepting where his life was leading him, Tristan regretted his. He regretted not being able to spend every last of his breath by Christine. Her face suddenly flashed before his half closed eyes as he was struck by the overwhelming fatigue and loss of blood. Her smile and eyes enthralled him and all he wanted was to close his eyes. He regretted that he had failed her and his king.

"You took the one thing I cared about from me," Braun was suddenly by Tristan's ear, whispering into it. His hiss managed to tear the masked man from his sleepiness and make him alert again. His mind was slower.

"Cadherra?" Tristan asked, not wanting to play guessing game. Braun would have laughed if it was not so evident. He pushed his thumb into Tristan's wound and the other man almost screamed, but he bit his lip instead and grunted.

"It should have been mine!" Braun spat.

In the distance Tristan heard commotion and shouts sound. He thought it was his mind playing tricks on him, perhaps more of Braun's men had joined the battle. Braun was too enthralled by his emotions to take note of the surrounding scene.

"Cadherra should never have been given to a filthy peasant like you!" he growled with pure detest in his eyes. The sword was pressed hard against his throat, making it difficult to speak.

"Cadherra belonged to the Vega family long before it belonged to you!" Tristan started suspecting everything was not as it seemed. A theory—a horrible presumption—started taking root in his mind. He began to comprehend just to what lengths Braun had gone to claim the land as his own.

"Do not tell me you orchestrated Charles Vega's downfall?" Braun looked at Tristan with even more contempt if that were possible.

"I did no such thing," the lord sneered. But there was something amiss in his face, something that sent Tristan's stomach turning and revolting. He did not believe Braun.

"You must have a motive for leading this revolt," Tristan said as sweat trickled down under the mask. He was about to have his throat cut open, yet, if he could make Braun give a spoken confession, surely to be heard by someone nearby, it would be enough.

Braun inched closer, pressing harder against the wound as his face twisted into a frown.

"Always the detective, eh Hawthorne?" he whispered in Tristan's ears. The words rose a fury within Tristan as he pushed against the sword and gritted his teeth.

"You planted evidence showing him to be a traitor. And for what!? For a mere piece of land? To what lengths does your greed lead you?" Tristan said in disgust and disbelief. He abhorred the lengths the petty man before him had gone to obtain the lands he desired.

"I will admit to nothing, not even now. But I hope you understand the pleasure I take in being the one to kill you, peasant."

Tristan did not fear death. When most men sought to avoid it at any cost, he accepted it as part of life. He knew that sooner or later, his time would come. There had been many times when death had breathed down his neck, many times where he had nearly lost his life. He had not been afraid then—perhaps when he was a child, and the thought of dying was too overwhelming for him to understand.

Yet, now, he could not accept that his life would end. He was afraid. Afraid that he would not get to see Christine again. Afraid that he would not feel her body against his, her lips on his own, hear her sigh as he held her.

So Tristan fought as hard as his weak body allowed him. He pushed against Braun despite his wounded shoulder, despite the loss of blood. For he very much wished to live. He had something to live for now, a goal in life.

But his feeble attempts only made Braun laugh. The other delighted in seeing Tristan fighting for his life, still holding some hope that he would make it out of that palace alive. Indeed, Braun enjoyed it enough to let his guard down.

The shouts they had heard before sounded stronger now, much stronger. One of Braun's men went to the window and was horrified by what he saw.

"M'lord Braun!" he shouted in the commotion. Two of the king's guard were left by James' side. Half of those who had come with Joseph, Fawkes, and Tristan were still alive, but deathly fatigued from the fight. Their weapons were up as they were on a standoff against Braun's men while he took care of Tristan. The lord seemed irritated by the interruption of his victory.

"What!" he shouted as he turned from Tristan. Braun sent daggers to the man who had dared to interrupt that pure moment of joy when he would take the masked man's life at last. He turned to see a very pale man, twitching as if eager to run away.

"A large army is currently storming the palace. There must be hundreds of them!" the man exclaimed as he pointed to the window. The king's men held their breath—could it be their people?

Braun released Tristan who fell to the floor, clutching his wounded shoulder, fighting against the fatigue and the pain. The other rushed to the window and looked out, his heart speeding up as he saw a whole regiment of armored soldiers running into the palace. They were not his men.

He looked around the room, thoughts and plans of escape flashing across his eyes as he realized he was doomed. He rushed toward Tristan but Fawkes and Ben were there, weapons in hand. Soon Joseph and even the king with his guards came to shield the wounded count from Braun.

"It seems it is over," smirked Fawkes, eager to see the bastard in front of him pay. Braun saw Tristan smirking knowingly at him as well. It was as if he knew the soldiers would come. Tristan had been stalling Braun for time, most likely. The realization made the lord furious. He pointed his sword toward Tristan.

"I will make you pay for this, for everything, Hawthorne. My loss today is your fault and you will feel the consequences!" he growled. The urge to kill Tristan only grew stronger.

The hatred against Tristan Hawthorne was something Braun had denied and suppressed for very long and now it bubbled until erupting like an angry volcano. Fawkes had a mind to take Braun down then and there. But before the general could reach him, the traitor stormed off.

"Retreat!" Braun yelled and his men swiftly followed him. It seemed like he would attempt an escape. The traitorous men started running away blindly, not knowing where they would meet the newly arrived soldiers.

"Remember my words, Hawthorne!" Braun said before he left the parlor as well. The group watched him leave with his men in utter disbelief. They could not believe their luck. Tristan tried to get up—to follow the traitor and his men—but he found he still had little strength.

"Go after him," the king ordered his guards and some lords who were unhurt from the battle. He saw Tristan leaning exhausted against the wall and grew worried when he noticed the wound and the blood.

"I have some spirits in my personal bedchamber that will help to awaken Lord Hawthorne. Robert, go get them." James turned to his chamberlain who did not idle and did as his king bade.

"Whose army has come to aid us in our hour of need?" asked a baffled Fawkes as he stared out the window. He saw an impressive militia of horsemen, of pikemen, several officers stood waiting for their turn to lead their group of soldiers into battle. But Fawkes could not single out a leader.

"Probably Lucius Chaeld," came the voice of Tristan as he downed another gulp of strong liquor. They all turned to him while Robert bandaged his wound. The bleeding had finally ceased.

"Lucius?" asked James. "I thought you said he was left back in Cadherra."

"Aye." Tristan turned to look the king directly in the eyes as he spoke in a serious tone. "Many months have led up to this point and I have been tracking these traitors, never truly knowing their identity. There is a lot we should speak of, Your Majesty. A lot of information I have will shed some light on this situation. Lord Athar will help with that as well."

"Lord Athar?" asked the chamberlain who could not help himself. James' lips thinned at the mention of the name.

"He is innocent, Your Majesty. A trial with real witnesses and real evidence will prove as much," Tristan answered tiredly.

"Innocent," James said, forcing each syllable out of his mouth. Guilt washed over the monarch. He had doubted in Athar when he should have trusted in him blindly.

"The evidence Cardinal Thorpe provided was false. You have seen yourself who the mastermind behind this whole rebellion was. Alistair himself confirmed it to me while I fought him this morning," Tristan continued explaining.

"I must speak with Lord Athar immediately." James got a determined expression on his face. "There are many wrongs to be righted here."

They could soon hear the shouts of battle and steel clashing against steel die down. It seemed the fight was over as the last of the traitors no doubt had been taken care of. Tristan forced himself to stand—against his better judgment—pushing aside nausea and fatigue that tore at his body.

"Before we go down, someone needs to go into the passageway. We left a wounded Lord Peter with Timothy before coming here. He should see a physician before anyone else does," said Fawkes, pointing at the entrance they had come through. The chamberlain quickly went there, escorted by a few other lords who would show him the way.

Meanwhile, the rest of the group exited the king's royal chambers, leaving the place behind to discover just who their saviors were. Tristan felt his step faltered every so often. But both Joseph and Simon were by his side, supporting their tired friend as they quickly descended to the lower levels of the palace.

With each step, however, all Tristan felt was relief. There was no doubt in his mind that Braun's men had been vanquished. He could not believe that they had come out victorious. A small smile managed to slip on his face.

"What has got you so happy?" asked Simon. "Braun could have killed you."

"But he didn't," answered Tristan enigmatically. He didn't even seem to care that he had been bested by another. He didn't care that he wasn't the best swordsman in Angloa. The only thing he cared about was that he would be able to keep his promise to Christine.

He was alive.

Suddenly a figure ran toward them. It was Lady Carina, looking disheveled in nothing but her nightgown and a frock she had thrown over it. Her long, raven locks were a mess, and she held an expression of fear and confusion. In her hand she held a heavy candleholder.

"Cousin, what on earth is transpiring here?" she exclaimed as she saw James and his men. James opened his arm to embrace Carina.

"Oh sweet cousin, thank God nothing happened to you," James murmured against her head.

"I heard the most horrible sounds outside my chambers and when I walked out of them I saw bodies everywhere and an army at our gates. Are we being besieged?" she said, trying to control the amount of fear that shone in her eyes.

"We were besieged, Your Highness. But we suspect the traitors have all fallen," explained Fawkes. James let go of his cousin and held her at arm's length to make sure she was not hurt. Carina's gaze wandered to Tristan, and a frown touched her delicate features as she realized he was injured.

"We will go and meet the men outside. If they prove to be against us, it is best you stay here, Your Highness," said Tristan, not wanting a doting princess by his side. It was clear in her expression that she was worried for his well-being. It seemed Tristan was growing more and more in the princess' favor.

She turned to her cousin, to try to argue. But any attempt to speak against him was futile. Two men stayed with her as they took her back to her chambers where she would be safe for the moment.

They then continued to sneak through the corridors, passing bloodied bodies, laying still on the ground. They decided that James should stay back, just in case as they neared the entrance from the courtyard.

Tristan, Joseph, Simon, Fawkes and a handful of others walked out into the sunshine, their jaws dropping at the sight before them.

There had been a massacre that had washed the light stone red with the blood of many. Bodies from both sides lay dead, basking in the rays of a sun they would never feel again on their skin.

Beyond that, more platoons stood, ready to engage in battle. As the group of men walked out from the palace, the soldiers bared their weapons, ready for another fight. Their superiors sat mounted and from the sea of soldiers emerged more riders. Amongst them, came Lucius with a wide grin on his face, telling the men at the front to stand down.

"My Lords!" he exclaimed, waiving enthusiastically as he got down from the horse and walked up to them, followed by other men.

Lucius took one look at Tristan and rose an eyebrow. "You look horrible," he said. Tristan could not help but smile. Those were the very words he had said to Lucius all those months ago when they had been at Castell.

Behind him came other men—lords that Tristan had never met before. They seemed to be men that did not frequent the court.

"Father?" said an astonished Joseph as he laid eyes on a man. Roland Winston, Viscount of Bannria stepped up with a stern expression in his steely eyes.

"It seems court has not grown boring in my absence," he muttered, looking displeased at his son. Joseph looked away from his father, at the ground as he squared his jaw.

"Why are you always the one stealing all the fun, Anthony?" said another man as he stepped up to hug a bewildered Fawkes.

"Because you always stayed locked in your castle, Edgar," responded Fawkes as he went to hug the other man. "But I am glad you came, brother," he smiled.

James now came up to them after he was made sure that these men were his. The king looked pleased as he saw the army before him. The lords who had come with Lucius were all older—in their winter years. The king turned to Lucius Chaeld.

"It seems it is you I have to thank, for having reacted so quickly from the summons of Lord Hawthorne," the king said, expressing his gratitude. Edgar Fawkes patted Lucius hard on the shoulder.

"Indeed, Your Majesty. He came out of nowhere, with this crazy story that the royal palace and yourself were in grave danger. It was all most of us needed, really," he smiled, baring his teeth. There was no doubt to Tristan that he and Fawkes were brothers. Edgar was slightly younger, handsome as his older brother and with fewer streaks of white in his hair.

"Where are you keeping Braun? I wish to speak with him immediately," said James as his countenance turned darker. Most of the others got a subdued look on their face.

"The snake managed to slip through our fingers while his men fought against ours. He fled toward the entrance of the city. But worry not, Your Majesty, we sent out our best men after him. He should be captured before the day is over," Roland said.

"A great many things need to be cleared. This plot runs deep as I understand it. We need to sort through many things and it will take time. I want the bodies taken care of before they start rotting. I also want Athar brought to me and hear from his own lips the part he played in all of this," James said as he started to take charge and controlling the situation.

"I will have the soldiers guard the palace and patrol the streets as a precaution," Roland continued.

"Your Majesty," said Tristan as the group dispersed and the king started walking back to the palace.

"Ah, yes, Hawthorne. I owe you a great deal of gratitude. Know that you shall be rewarded as you see fit!" James seemed to be restored back to his former self. The depression of Athar's treason, the stress of a plot had all but gone away after the battle. Tristan shook his head as he moved away from Joseph and Simon who still stood by his side, supporting him.

"All I want is to return to my fiancée and take the first ship to Cadherra," he said bluntly. James frowned at this.

"It is my wish that you stay here, in Wessport, Lord Hawthorne. I feel you could do much good here."

"Alas, I am determined," answered Tristan. James' lips then turned into a thin line.

"If that is your wish. I shall have you escorted back to your townhouse nonetheless, for your own protection," James said after a moment's pause. Tristan knew well what it meant. The soldiers that would escort them would also be there to make sure that he and Christine did not run to get the first ship they could find. It was like when he had returned to Wessport from the war. The king made sure that he stayed in the capital.

"I will go with you," said Joseph.

Simon Rajac wanted to seek up his wife, to make sure that she was safe.

"As will I," came the baritone voice of Lucius. "I feel I need a change of company, after having spent so many days next to Edgar Fawkes. Lord, that man never ceases to speak," grinned Lucius. The words brought a smile to Tristan's lips.

"But Joseph, are you sure you do not wish to spend time with your father?"

"No," came the terse reply. "My father can do well without my company," he said. Tristan did not brush the subject, understanding that theirs was a complicated relationship.

"Then have someone fetch us horses and we shall be off," he said, longing for his fiancée. Lucius had a soldier get them some horses, and they rode toward the townhouse. The whole road all Tristan could think of was her lips, her smile and her delicate voice. They had been through a great ordeal, but it seemed that peace was finally upon them.

There was still the matter of the anonymous princess—the daughter of Philip Fell and Leonore Valois. But she had no more lords that would follow her. They had taken them all down.

He also wondered if Durun had taken down Lord Savoie and his men back at the meadow.

But all those thoughts were brushed aside, together with the pain and fatigue in his body. The horses cantered down the desolate streets of Wessport, Tristan enjoyed the warmth of the sun on the little skin he showed.

He would marry Christine now because she wanted to. Never in a million years did he think returning for Angloa would end so well for him.

They arrived shortly at the townhouse. Its gates and doors still stood open, just like they had left them. Tristan got down from the brown mare he had borrowed, gritting his teeth as he bit back the pain. Any time now he half expected Christine to come running out at the sound of hooves and jump into his arms.

But she never came. He suspected she had taken to her room while awaiting him. He entered the hallway where they had been hours before. The sun had started to lower on the sky now as it had reached past noon.

"Hello," he said in loud words as he walked in, finding the house to be eerily quiet.

Joseph and Lucius walked in after him, growing tense at the stillness of the house. It was then that they noticed the blood on the cold floor—splotches of it here and there. They noticed footprints in it as well.

Tristan then saw Mrs. Rochester lying by the foot of the stairway, unmoving. Deep within his being he already knew something was very wrong. Yet, he refused to believe it. The three men rushed to her side and turned her to face them. She was still warm, indicating that she had been killed within the hour. Her empty eyes stared lifelessly back at them and Tristan rose.

He rushed up the stairways as quickly as he could, ignoring the pain and nausea that built within him. He rushed through every room, finding it all empty. He refused to believe that she was as lifeless as Rochester. Lucius was soon behind him.

"Tristan," came the quiet voice.

"Has someone search the surroundings of the house, Lucius." Lucius had never before seen Tristan in such a way. He had always been stoic, calm under pressure and kept his head clear. But now he saw fear.

"We found more servants hidden in the kitchens. They… they have all been…" he found he had not the heart to say that the rest of them had been murdered as well. He found he had not the heart to say how bloody the kitchens were. The look in Tristan's eyes turned his whole being cold as he remained silent.

"But we have not found her, so there is still hope," Lucius slowly said, knowing well that it would not be the case. It was then that they heard it—soft cries coming from Tristan's room. They both rushed there, breaking open the locked door.

The curtains were drawn, leaving the room in complete darkness. Lucius unsheathed his sword. The cries grew louder from someone sprawled on the bed. Both of them entered and pulled aside the curtains.

Tristan's heart beat loudly in his chest. He could feel the blood coursing through his veins and the adrenaline that stemmed from it. He was ready to find Christine—thinking that she had locked herself there; that she had perhaps managed to remain hidden. But his heart sank in his chest as he saw a maid on the bed, with forming bruises on her face and her gown torn in several parts. She hugged herself as she cried softly.

Both men stared as they realized what had happened to her. She didn't even seem to notice them as previous events of what had been done to her replayed in her mind.

"Miss," said Lucius slowly, not wanting to startle her. The maid finally seemed out of her trance and stared at them blank eyed, her lip quivering. She had been punched several times in the face. Her otherwise feminine looks and beautiful traits were marred as bruises had discolored her skin. One eye was puffing up, making for a bizarre look. Marks started forming around her neck as someone had no doubt tried to choke her.

"Miss, it will be alright," assured Lucius as he removed his cape and went to place it around her bared shoulders. She cried harder as she held herself, inching away in fright from them. Tristan could not find words. He could only wonder if Christine had suffered the same fate.

"Who did this to you?" he asked after they had let her calm down, resting her head on her knees. She looked at him and shivered. But it seemed the young woman finally felt safe in their presence as they made no move to touch her.

"T-they killed Mrs. Rochester," she whispered after a while, her voice hoarse. She cried again. "They killed the other older maids too. But not us, not the young ones," she lamented.

" _Who_ did this to you?" Tristan's voice was harsher as he stepped closer. The maid's face twisted in pain as she had to remember every moment of being violated.

"Several men. First in the kitchens, then here. They were fast because they were afraid of being followed," she whispered as if the perpetrators could still hear her.

Tristan banged a fist into the wall, ignoring the pain as his hand hit the hard surface. He had not the heart to search the rest of the house and find Christine discarded somewhere in the same manner.

"They t-took Miss Vega as they dragged me from the kitchens," she mumbled. "One of them was angry because he said they were wasting time."

"Do you know who he was?" asked Lucius while Tristan collected his thoughts. Her expressive eyes found his and stared blankly, her face twisting in pain as she shivered once more. But the maid took a deep breath when she saw how unnerved Tristan was.

"He had thinning brown hair and a beard. He was dressed nicer than the rest." Her voice was clearer as she recalled the face.

"Braun," growled Tristan. He then remembered the words the other had said: " _I will make you pay for this—for everything—Hawthorne. My loss today is your fault and you will feel the consequences!"_

His heart sped up. The traitor had probably come by the townhouse and kidnapped Christine before fleeing Wessport. This was his way to wound Tristan, and it worked.

"Did he say where they were bound for?"

"I cannot know. I only saw a glimpse before another man took me up here and continued to…" The maid turned silent and shivered involuntarily as the memories flashed through her mind.

"Before he managed to drag me up the stairs, Miss Vega was defending Mrs. Rochester from that man. When Mrs. Rochester refused to back away from her ladyship, he shot her!" she exclaimed, remembering how much blood the flintlock had caused. The maid had never seen a pistol being used before and she never knew of its capabilities. It was the weapon of the devil to be sure.

Tristan pushed Lucius aside, feeling that all was lost, falling into a dark hole of helplessness. Saxton was right, the traitors of Wessport had found his weak spot and they had charged as hard as they could. He grabbed the girl by the shoulders and gripped her hard, staring right into her frightened face. The sudden action caused the maid to cry out in fear as the dark, masked man neared her. She tried to shy away but his hard hands on her arms allowed for little movement.

"Please, I beg you, if there is anything else you can remember, anything that will help us find Christine, tell me now," he cried. The maid kept her eyes away from the masked face and the low, husky growl that came from its mouth. She shivered in his hard grip as the tears still flowed. Both Lucius and Tristan could see the thoughts processing in her mind as she tried to think of something.

"I think that well-dressed man—the one you call Braun—mentioned someone. He spoke of visiting Cardinal Thorpe as quickly as possible, and then to continue east," she said. Tristan released the grip he had on her and stepped back.

"Cardinal Thorpe is mixed up in this as well?" Lucius asked, bewildered. "Good God," he said quietly to himself when no answer came.

Suddenly Joseph appeared in the doorway, staring at the broken maid and widening his eyes when he realized what had happened to her.

"I could find no trace of Christine," Joseph said, finally having found them in Tristan's room. He and the other soldiers had searched the whole townhouse, only finding maids and older footmen who had not followed them when they had first gone to the palace. Joseph had watched in shock as some of the younger maids had clearly been violated before being killed.

"We know where she's bound for and who took her," growled Tristan as he walked into his closet. He changed into more comfortable clothes and fetched all the money he could find at the present in his room.

"Where?"

"Rome, for there is where Cardinal Thorpe went right after Lord Athar was imprisoned," Tristan growled even harsher. "And that is where I am going."

"To Rome?" answered Lucius in disbelief. "You can barely walk straight from the blood you have lost. And what will you do once you discover them, fight Braun?"

"Against who you lost," Joseph added quietly.

"Always the voices of reason," Tristan growled to himself.

"And did not the king order you back to the palace as soon as we were done here—"

"I will find her and no one—be he king or otherwise—will make me stay another second here. I already did what I could to save him and his crown. I made a promise to Christine—that I would see her again, alive. I tend to keep that promise," Tristan growled harshly at them.

Lucius gave an audible sigh as he got up from the bed. The maid pulled the cape tighter around herself as she sniveled silently.

"I will come with you, Tristan. Someone has to guard your back while you storm off and get the rest of us in trouble," Lucius smirked.

" _We_ will come with you," Joseph corrected. Lucius and Tristan men stared at him silently the younger man shrugged. "Did you really think I'd let you go after Braun and his men without me? Christine is my friend, and I want to have the pleasure of seeing Braun suffer as much as the rest of you," he defended. The words coaxed a small smile in them.

"I hope you kill them all," came the quiet voice of the maid as she looked at them timidly. Lucius nodded, placing a light hand on her shoulder.

"Come, we shall have the soldiers escort you to the palace and have them care for you. We will indeed make Braun and his men pay for his crimes. I think all of us can promise as much," Lucius said. The maid nodded, collecting herself as she got out of the bed. It hurt for every step and movement made her aware of her broken body.

Tristan watched her in silence as Lucius escorted her down to the soldiers. He prayed silently that Christine had not suffered the same treatment.

"Did you see the marks around her neck?" Joseph asked when she was out of the room.

"Whoever had his way with her, meant to kill her after he was done—to silence her," Tristan said, aware of what that meant. "They wanted to erase any trace of where they were going."

When he was ready he walked on his own accord down the stairs and found the two soldiers there. The maid had been placed on a horse and was waiting outside, still clutching the cape around her small form. When Tristan and his friends made a move toward the horses, the soldiers stopped them.

"We could not help but overhear a little of the conversation, my lord," one of them said. He looked at the floor to avoid Tristan's intense gaze. The soldier had fought for him at Castell and he found it hard to go against him now.

"We cannot let you leave Wessport," the other continued. Tristan stared him down and a low growl could be heard.

"I will give you one chance to step aside now. I still have enough fight in me to take both of you down," he snapped, reaching for a spare rapier he'd found in his closet. The soldiers stepped back and bared their swords, but none dared attack their old general.

"It's the king's order we follow. Please, Lord Hawthorne, we do not wish to fight you," the first soldier pleaded. Tristan ignored his pleas and pushed past him.

"Inform His Majesty that I have left the country and that I will deal with whatever consequences he sees fit upon my return," he answered haughtily as he walked past the soldiers, grunting involuntarily at the pain in his shoulder. They never made a move to stop him. Lucius and Joseph were close behind.

They walked past the maid and nodded as they passed her. She handed Lucius his cape, despite herself.

The three of them were silent as they galloped to the harbor, with not a second to spare. The soldiers had a duty to report what Tristan had said to the king. There was no doubt in Tristan's mind that James would send out a whole platoon to get him back to the palace. Every moment was precious. If he did not leave Angloa now, he was certain he would lose Christine forever.

They arrived at the harbor, filled to the brim with merchant ships.

"We are really leaving then," Lucius said.

"You may stay back, if that is your wish," Tristan responded. "I will not think less of you for it." He only received a raised eyebrow and a shrug on Lucius' part.

"I am with you, Tristan. We shall find her," he retorted.

They got down from their horses. None had packed anything, and they had little with them, only the clothes on their back and each a purse of coins.

They ventured amongst the masses, the odor of sea and fish wafted through the air. Seagulls played in the sky, searching for food that had been thrown out or amongst the stalls that lined the houses. They found several merchant ships sailing east, but no one would leave for Rome within the day. They finally found a merchant ship and its captain, sailing for Malaga, for Spain. There they would no doubt find more ships directly bound for the Italian peninsula.

"We sail for Malaga, aye. But not until tomorrow morning," said the captain as he eyed the curious trio of men, not too keen on having them on his ship. Tristan sighed and took out a few gold coins from his purse, pushing them into the hand of the robust man before him.

"We sail _now_ and there will be more where that came from if you heed my word," he said darkly. The captain was too afraid to say anything against him and offered them to mount the ship immediately.

Tristan went to the front of the deck, staring at the horizon, wondering where Christine was—if she was alright, if she was frightened.

The sailors started running around deck as the sun had reached its highest point in the sky. It now started its slow descent, soon leaving the lands of Angloa shrouded in darkness.

The sailors worked effortlessly as they settled into their routine. The songs of the seagulls, shouts of the merchants and quips of the sailors expanded throughout the harbor.

Minutes passed until the crew members undocked the mighty vessel and left Wessport. Tristan felt the ship move in unison with the wind as the white sails caught hold of them, leaving the corrupt and greedy city behind. They were sailing for new, exotic lands in the south.

When the ship was far enough from the harbor, the people on deck saw a small army of soldiers rushing to the harbor. The soldiers were searching fervently for the masked man and his friends.

They were too late.

As the dark waters of the Atlantic swayed and the fluffy clouds in the sky floated softly, he vowed to himself that he would keep true to his word—that he would do all it took to rescue her. Tristan would move mountains and oceans to find Christine and have her by his side.

The harbor shrunk in size the further they got from it and the trio sailed toward the European Continent and toward whatever awaited them beyond their island.

* * *

 **Note: Thank you all for reading this story and for reviewing, favoriting, following etc! This is the first part of a trilogy that I am planning. I am already writing the next story that I will post as soon as it is finished. I will also come back to this story, go over the grammar and writing with my talented beta, Shiloh Grace (who has an amazing fic you should read as well on her profile. Go check it out!). Thanks again and cheers!**


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